A Day in the Life
by S. Faith
Summary: There's nothing like embarking on a new career in earnest to kick-start one's life. Don't be surprised, then, when it starts kick-starting other things, too.
1. Chapter 1: A New Assignment

**A Day in the Life**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 33,624  
Rating: M / R (For Chapter 3)  
Summary: There's nothing like embarking on a new career in earnest to kick-start one's life. Don't be surprised, then, when it starts kick-starting other things, too.  
Disclaimer: This _is_ my circus, just not my monkeys. And as far as I know, there is no such series in _The Independent_.  
Notes: Book universe. With some leakage in from the films.

 **Chapter 1: A New Assignment**

 **Late December**

"I hate my job. I fucking, fucking, _fucking_ hate my job."

Bridget set the glass of wine down with a little more force than intended, splashing it all over her hand. Another curse escaped her lips.

"Oh, come now, Bee," said her friend as Bridget dried the wine from her hand. "It's not all bad. And at least you get out of the house and speak to other human beings with vocabularies larger than twenty-five words."

"It _is_ all that bad," she said. "My boss is a moron and my work is not in any way satisfying." She picked up the wineglass then took another sip of wine, draining it dry. "I'm just _waiting_ to be assigned to a dog fashion show. It's only a matter of time, really."

She sighed. Her friend did not say anything in response… but her husband did.

"Are you still wanting to do actual journalism?"

"I _have_ done actual—" She stopped because she didn't want to lie, then poured more wine. Instead, she asked, "Did you hear about a job opening or something?"

"Not as such," he said. "At the news agents, I happened to notice the announcement of a new series in _The Independent_ that they're launching soon. I thought of you."

"If they'd let me," she murmured, thinking of that failed attempt at celebrity interviewing. "What's the series?" she asked. "And why me?"

"Because you're always complaining you want to do something a bit more serious, more satisfying," Jeremy said with a wink. "As for the series, they're doing a bunch of 'a day in the life' of different sorts of professional people. This week's an A&E doctor, I guess. Next week'll be a secondary school teacher."

She had to admit the idea was appealing, but… "I wouldn't have the faintest idea which profession to cover."

"Aha, I can help there, too," he said. He held out his hands. "Barrister!"

She cocked a brow. She couldn't think of anything duller than one of Jeremy's days, an accounting of which she'd heard far too many times. "Seriously?"

"If you want people to take you seriously," her friend, Magda, cut in, "you have to tackle serious topics. Jeremy and his partners in chambers take on some very serious cases. It could be just what you need, Bridge."

Bridget regarded Jeremy again. She was beginning to think that maybe, for once, Jeremy might have had a winning idea. "All right," she said. "I'll whip together a pitch, and if they bite, I'll… I don't know. Take off a day or so to write it up."

"That's the spirit, Bridge," said Magda, lifting her glass as if in toast. "May this upcoming year be even better than the last."

 **Early January**

Once the bug had bitten her, she couldn't stop thinking about doing it. In fact, she rang up her mother to feign illness in order to escape the yearly horror of the New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet, which she considered a win on two fronts: career advancement, and avoiding this year's single girl prize, a man her mother had been dropping mentions into every conversation since August, at least.

"You're going to be _very_ sorry," her mother had scolded. "I had a lovely outfit picked out for you; you know, darling, the darling floral skirt and waistcoat, with the shirt with the ruffled collar—"

It was all she'd had to hear to make her feel like she'd dodged a bullet.

But her pitch was as perfect as it was going to get, and on the first work day in the new year, she marched down to their editorial offices, politely but forcefully requested an appointment to pitch her story, then did so.

She got the job. Her past experience with celebrity interviews had not, in fact, worked against her; they remembered the interest it had garnered, and hoped she'd garner just as much with this piece.

"But I intend this to be a more serious piece," she'd said. They looked like they didn't believe her. She'd show them.

The year was off to an excellent start.

…

The year was off to a depressing start.

He had accompanied his parents to a party with them at their request, most due to his intrigue at his mother's mentioning that she had someone nice to introduce to him: a professional career woman who worked in a field vastly different to his own; attractive and popular, but lacking in the area of love.

He had to admit he'd been intrigued—particularly by the assertion that, despite having millions of men taking her out, she was too much of a feminist to deign to settle with any of them—even though he never would have admitted to it. He'd thought of it, of _her_ , as a challenge. When he'd arrived at the party, though, he found she had phoned to say she wasn't feeling well, but own mother didn't even seem to believe her. This made it patently clear to him that she'd had no interest in attending in order to meet him.

He'd felt stood up, sight unseen.

This, compounded by the unhappy holiday-related memories that haunted him every year, did not put him in the most amenable of moods upon returning to work after the Christmas holiday, particularly when, not even a week into the year, he learnt he would be taking on a special assignment.

"Why me?" he asked his colleague, Jeremy, who had come to inform him.

"Because I know the journalist so I'd feel it was a conflict of interest," Jeremy said, "and you have not adequately paid your dues in the press."

"Just because I refuse to give them interviews about my cases?"

"Yes, to be honest," said Jeremy, "because being so tight-lipped gives you a reputation of being cold and unapproachable."

He bristled. "What does that have to do with anything? It's not like it's stopping me from getting clients."

"Mark," he said, "you are actually the best in chambers, I don't mind admitting, just ahead Horatio for cases-won percentage for last year… but you also had twenty-five per cent fewer clients than he did, for God's sake."

"My cases are often more challenging," he said, though realised Horatio was also supposed to be half-retired at this point.

Jeremy clapped Mark on the shoulder in a friendly way. "You're a decent chap and I consider you a good friend," he said. "But the fact is that you're a bit scary sometimes, and your public image could use softening a little. This story for _The Independent_ is exactly what you need."

Mark realised he was not going to win this argument, and he sighed. "Fine," he said. "But does it have to be _The Independent_?"

"Yes," he said. "They're doing a whole public interest series, 'a day in the life' sort of thing. So Monday oncoming, you will have Ms Jones shadowing you."

"All day?" Mark asked.

"Actually," Jeremy replied, "probably most of the week."

When he returned to his office, the normally pacifist Mark barely kept himself from punching something. What on earth had he done to deserve this?

 **Monday, 4 Jan**

Mark was, as always, able to immerse himself in his work, but the downside meant that it was Monday again before he knew it. He didn't have a court appearance that day, so he forecasted that the day was going to be a very long, very tedious one.

He had expected her to be there at the very start of the day, but she wasn't. In fact, it was nearly ten a.m. before he heard the tap on his office door. He looked up to see Jeremy standing there, and beside him was a young woman with a messenger bag slung on her shoulder. She was dressed smartly, a tailored suit jacket and skirt, her dark blonde hair pulled away from her face. "Mark," said Jeremy. "Allow me to introduce Ms Bridget Jones, the journalist with _The Independent_ who'll be with you today. Bridge, this is Mark Darcy, our top barrister here in chambers."

She was regarding him with an odd look as she extended her hand for a cordial handshake. He was sure his own expression was odd, as there was something very familiar about her, or at least her name. "Very nice to meet you," she said. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"She got a bit lost," Jeremy said.

"I got turned around," she said emphatically. "Anyway, you can just fill me in on what you've been doing so far this morning, and we'll catch up."

"I'll leave you to it, then," said Jeremy. To her, he said, "Still on for lunch?"

"Sure thing," she said, then gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "Bye."

Then it came to him, why her name seemed familiar. This was the Ms Millions-of-Men-Feminist who had blown off the Turkey Curry Buffet with a flimsy excuse. No wonder she had not wanted to attend to meet him. No wonder Jeremy had said she couldn't interview him because of a conflict of interest. Jeremy had embarked on yet another affair; this time, with this woman.

He could remain thoroughly professional and discreet, even though personally, he thought it was distasteful on Jeremy's part.

Once Jeremy had gone, Mark said, "Why don't you have a seat?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, though she was still regarding him with scrutiny. "I'm sorry to stare, but have we actually met before? Your name's famil—" As she spoke, it clearly occurred to her how his name was familiar.

"We were, I think, supposed to meet on New Year's Day," he said curtly, resuming his seat. "Now. As for the portion of my day that you missed, I attended our Monday morning meeting, then I've been reviewing this brief." He pushed a piece of paper towards her.

"This?" She picked it up, looking it over; there was nothing in it that was particularly confidential. "All morning?"

"A good portion of it, yes."

She looked to him again. "I don't even understand it."

"It's extremely precise, legal language."

"I'll say." She handed it back to him. She turned to her bag. "Let me get some background on you," she said, pulling out a notebook computer, opening it, poising her fingers to type. "Where did you do your legal training? Did you have to do an internship?"

"Cambridge," he said. "Triple-Starred First. Then I did what's called a pupillage—"

"Wait, a what? A _Triple-Starred First_?" she asked in disbelief, then laughed. "You're making that up!"

"I'm not," he said coolly. "My pupillage was with a law firm close to the school, and after being called to the Bar, I was brought on by the partners here."

She blinked a few times, then typed in what he said. "Right," she said. "Is 'Triple-Starred' hyphenated?"

"I believe that it is," he said. "Yes."

"Pupillage. One 'l' or—"

"Two," he said.

"Great," she said, finishing up her thoughts, then looking up to him. "Now what?"

Curious about these basic grammar and spelling uncertainties, he asked, "Exactly what are your journalistic credentials?"

She sat up straighter in her chair. "You may have seen a celebrity interview that I did with Colin Firth in _The Independent_."

"Who?"

She let out an annoyed breath. "He played Mr Darcy on the BBC, for one."

"As for 'now what'," he continued as if she hadn't answered at all, "I have to finish reviewing the brief to prepare my defence."

"Wait. So someone else wrote it?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Solicitors do the paperwork. Barristers, such as myself, take charge of the case for court."

"Ooh," she said brightly, "so do we get to go to court?"

"No."

…

All of this legal stuff was all very confusing. And boring as hell. _It must be boring_ , she thought, _if going to court's something to actually look forward to._ Deflated, she said, "Oh."

"Well, not today, anyway," he amended.

"So today is all about… staring at papers?"

He directed his gaze at her; a gaze, she noticed, that was exceedingly penetrating and a bit intimidating, which she supposed worked to his advantage in a courtroom scenario. "This work is not as glamourous as journalist's, I suppose," he said drolly. "Who on earth suggested this story to you, anyway?"

"Jeremy," she said.

"Ah, that explains it," he said. "Well. Not staring. Reading, comprehending, strategizing."

"And then eventually going to court," she said. She started to type again. "Can you talk about the case you're working on?"

"No."

She glanced up. "No?"

"Confidentiality. No."

"But it was all right for me to look at that paper?"

"It's a procedural brief," he said, "and there's nothing confidential about it, but even if it were, you already said you didn't understand it, anyway. I have very little I could show you that isn't either equally incomprehensible, or confidential."

"But what about my story?"

"That's hardly my concern," he said, folding his hands over the paper he'd been reviewing. "You're here to observe my day. I am happy to explain what I'm doing but I'd be a terrible barrister—and likely a sanctioned one—if I broke confidentiality with my clients."

She opened her mouth to respond when his telephone began to ring. He reached over and picked up the receiver, addressing whomever it was with, "Mark Darcy."

"Shall I step outside, then?" she asked, though he paid her no heed. "I'll just go then." He waved his hand as if to dismiss her, as he listened to his caller. "Right."

She decided that she needed a cigarette, but then as she looked around in the hallway, she realised she might never find her way back, so she stayed put. She looked to her watch then sighed heavily. She had only been in there with him for twenty minutes.

"Fuck me," she muttered to herself, just as the door opened again.

"Ah, I was hoping you hadn't gone far," Mark said. "It's very easy to get… _turned around_ in this building."

She hoped her own expression matched one of his darker ones. "Appreciate your concern," she said coolly, passing by him to go into his office again.

He took his seat once more, and looked to her waiting for her to take hers, too. When she did, when she brought her netbook close enough to type on again, he spoke. "I apologise for the interruption. I had scheduled a conference call meeting over the lunch hour, and that was a call asking to start at ten minutes past."

"Noon?"

He looked as if he thought she might be mad. "Yes," he said slowly. "The lunch hour. Fortunately you'll be able to give it a miss."

 _Thank God_ , she thought.

"I'll just finish the review of this paperwork, then if you like, you can accompany me to the solicitor's office."

"Hurrah," she said with mock-enthusiasm. He raised his eyes, glaring at her once more. "Let's get on with it then."

"After you return from lunch, I mean," he said. "I don't know how long it'll take me, and I can't be late for the conference call."

"Ah." She typed in some notes, saw what she'd put down earlier. "So you have meetings on Monday morning? What do you talk about? Provided, of course, you can talk about these things."

"Of course. The partners get together to discuss their caseload and the progress they've made, and what's anticipated in the week ahead. Now, I'll finish this, if you want to, I don't know, polish up your notes from the morning."

"Right."

She promptly made edits to what she'd already written, added in several new paragraphs at her first impressions and to add in information about their weekly status meetings, and typed in a few things to spark her memory for later. She then she looked to him again. He was obviously still working, studying the paper with impressive levels of concentration.

"Pardon me," she said quietly. He looked up, clearly annoyed. "I was wondering where I might find a coffee."

"I believe there's a Pret down the street."

"Nothing in the building?"

"Afraid not." He looked back down, studying the page again.

"How about the loos? Is there one nearby?"

"If you go into the hallway to the left, then turn right at the intersection, you'll find them." After a pause, he said, "If you're not back in a few minutes, I'll send out a search party."

She pursed her lips, rose, and went to the ladies' room.

…

"Oh my _God_ , Jeremy," said Bridget over her wineglass at lunch. "Did you have to give me the rudest bastard in chambers for my story?"

"What do you mean?" he said.

"He's been doing nothing but revising a brief all bloody morning, and he doesn't answer any of my questions about his cases."

"Unfortunately," Jeremy said, "that's kind of what we do. All of those _Pelican Brief_ -type pictures have been very misleading."

"I'll say. Why the hell did you recommend this for my 'day in the life' story?"

"It'll be your challenge to spice it up, make it good reading," he said with a wink.

With a heavy sigh, she took another bite of her lunch.

"It turns out he's the same guy my mum wanted to set me up with on New Years Day," she said, then looked up at a stunned Jeremy. He then began to laugh.

"Maybe he's in a bad mood," Jeremy said. "I mean, _if_ he is in a bad mood—"

"Seems like it to me."

"Then again," he said, "he's always a bit like that. Has a reputation for a cool demeanour."

"You can say that again."

"But he's the best at what he does," said Jeremy, "and really a good guy. Maybe he just needs a little time to warm to you."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "He has no sense of humour. At all."

"It _is_ a bit dry…."

"It's a bloody desert, Jeremy."

Jeremy smirked. "I have every confidence that you'll get a good story out of this," he said.

She snorted in disbelief, ate some more of her salad, then sighed. "It'd be easier getting blood from a stone," she said. "I'm going to need more than today, for sure."

"Probably," said Jeremy. "Oh, bloody hell. It's a bit later than I thought."

They didn't linger once they were finished eating, and it wasn't until she was standing before his door again that she remembered she had meant to call to extend her time off. Which excuse would she offer this time? Or perhaps she should just extend her current excuse…

She pulled out her mobile and rang up Perpetua.

"Sorry to report, I'll need a day or two more."

Perpetua's tone was highly sceptical. "A day or two for the _gynaecologist_?"

"Really sorry, but it's a particularly complicated gynaecological problem," she said quietly… just as she looked up to meet Mark Darcy's disapproving eye. "Thanks. I'll see you Thursday."

…

She disconnected her call and composed herself. "Meeting's over, then?"

"Yes," he said, pondering what he had just apparently overheard: her making an appointment for a… very personal problem. "Through with lunch?"

"Obviously," she said. "Shall we head off to the solicitor's?"

He nodded, retreating into the office to gather the paper, the words 'particularly complicated' turning and turning in his head, along with the descriptor 'millions of men'—and thought too of Jeremy.

"It was just an excuse," she said. "I mean, I know you overheard me on the phone."

"Your medical issues are none of my business," he said, turning his gaze to her.

"I don't have any medical issues," she said. "It's just… that was work."

"That clears everything up."

"I mean, my normal work, in publishing," she explained. "I was taking today off to write this, but I'll need more time. I guess I just can't help winding my nosy superior up a bit, that's all."

"I see," he said, though could not help think how immature such a thing was.

A little more brightly, she continued, "Do you think… do you think you can be, I don't know…" She then trailed off at his stern expression.

"Be what?" he asked, looking at his papers again to ensure he had everything he needed.

"…a little livelier? I—"

He managed to silence her mid-sentence with only a look. He didn't know if he'd have the patience to deal with her for another two days. "Come on," he said gruffly, handing her the netbook she'd brought. "Let's go see Mr McKinney."

While his conversation with Alastair McKinney was slightly more exciting, objectively speaking, than sitting and reviewing the brief, she seemed bored beyond belief, and typed very little, only speaking once to apologise for an audio outburst from her computer that he recognised as the music from the game Solitaire. His glare meant that it did not happen again.

As they left that office to walk back to his own, as she lagged behind, he felt something akin to sympathy; he supposed it was rather slow work for someone whose own livelihood was a bit faster paced. He redirected them to the nearby Pret.

"What's this?"

"You had mentioned wanting a coffee," he said. "Unless you'd rather—"

"No, no, I'd _love_ one," she said.

He went up to the counter and ordered himself a black house coffee before he turned to her. "And whatever she'd like."

She looked surprised—as if she'd never expected he'd pay—but blathered out that she wanted a cappuccino. "Thank you," she said, offering a small smile.

Upon arriving back to his office, he took his seat again and she took the one she'd used since arriving, on the opposite side of his desk. She held her drink with two hands and took a careful sip.

"So what other adventure does your day hold?" she asked.

Ignoring the superficial tone, he said, "Well, I do have a court appearance tomorrow, so I'll review the brief again with an eye towards defence. I mean, I've already got my strategy in mind, but it's good to have it all nailed down before I'm in front of the judge."

She nodded, showing the most interest in his work that she'd shown all day.

"You'll want to be here by eight," he went on, "and you can accompany me to the Royal Court of Justice."

"Eight?" she said. "In the morning?"

"Certainly not this evening," he said. He glanced to the clock. It was quarter to five. "I don't really see any reason for you to stay while I work on strategy. Go on home, and I'll see you bright and early."

"Oh," she said. "Well, all right then." She reached to pick up her netbook in order to pack it in her bag, but in doing so she knocked her drink over. Thanks to the lid, his papers were spared, but the directed nature of the spill—cappuccino coming directly through the spout—meant his trousers were not.

He looked down at the spill as she exclaimed, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry." She jumped up, looked around, then, seeing a box of tissues, she grabbed a few and ran around to try to help, pressing them into the spill.

"I _think_ I can handle this myself," he said curtly, rolling the chair away from her.

"Oh God," she said again, realising precisely what she'd done. "You're not…" Her eyes flicked down. "— _burnt_ , I hope."

"No damage done," he said stoically, "except for an unexpected stop at the cleaners."

"I'll pay," she blurted. "I'll _totally_ pay."

"Not necessary," he said, reaching for the now-empty cup to right it. "It was an accident." _Go on_ , he thought, _before my office bursts into spontaneous flames_. "I'll see you in the morning."

Looking utterly chastened, she finished packing her bag. Slinging it onto her shoulder, she said, "Well. See you then, then." With that, she was gone, and peace was restored to his world. _For now, anyway_ , he thought, thinking of the next two days.

He turned to his work—thank goodness the damage was beyond minimal—and began to read and take more notes when a knock sounded on his door. "Come in," he said without thinking.

The door swung wide. Jeremy stood there, and seemed puzzled that he was alone. "Where's Bee? I mean… Bridget?"

The slip, the usage of the affectionate abbreviation of her name, only seemed to confirm Mark's suspicions, though he was careful not to reveal anything in his features. "I sent her home," Mark said, "as there was no need for her to stay while I did strategy work."

"Ah," said Jeremy. "Was supposed to give her a lift."

 _And probably a little more_ , Mark thought sourly. "You've missed her," Mark said. "Sorry."

"Everything all right?"

Mark sighed, setting down his pen. "Just fine," he said, "save for surreptitious Solitaire games and spilt cappuccino in the lap."

Jeremy began laughing. "That sounds… typical. I'm sorry, Mark. Tomorrow will probably be a little more interesting for her. I find it's often a challenge to keep her entertained."

Mark prayed that Jeremy would not regale him with details.

Jeremy, undoubtedly at Mark's expression, smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Good luck, and good night," Jeremy said. "Me, I've got a date to keep."

…

Bridget had to admit that a day in court was much more appealing than watching Mr Stuffy Britches revise a brief, though funnily enough, the boredom of the day had really taken the energy it out of her. When her mobile went off shortly after her arrival home, she groaned; it was Jeremy, asking if she was still willing to come and watch the kids so he and Magda could have dinner together. She had totally forgotten she was supposed to ride to the house with him.

"I'll come and get you," he said. "No worries. Gives you a chance to put on something more comfortable."

Fortunately—miraculously, even—the children were exceptionally well-behaved, giving her a chance to work on her article as they watched DVDs of Pingu, and went to bed obediently and on time. Jeremy and Magda came back from their date night at a respectable hour, and she was home and in her flat by eleven. She smiled to think of her friends' reconciliation; in an effort to keep their relationship energised after an affair that Jeremy had had (and about which he had been thoroughly penitent), they had begun regular date nights. Monday night was a weird night to do it, but due to Jeremy's caseload, he would be working late the rest of the week, and he wanted to honour his commitment to his wife.

"See?" he'd said to Magda before they'd left, bringing emotional tears to Bridget's eyes; "I told you I was serious."

 **Tuesday, 5 Jan**

She did make it to Mark Darcy's office by the appointed hour of eight, though she had to sacrifice stopping at the nearby Pret a Manger for a coffee. To her surprise, however, Mark was in his office, and a paper coffee cup from Pret sat in front of the chair that she had occupied the day before.

"Good morning; glad to see you made it on time," he said curtly. He indicated the cup. "Cappuccino, as per yesterday. Please try to not spill it."

She offered a smile. Maybe he was warming to her, after all. "Thank—" she began, but was overtaken by a yawn. "Sorry. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He smiled stiffly, then asked, "Late night?" With those two words, his tone was somehow reproachful.

"Not really any of your business," she said matter-of-factly, picking up the coffee and sipping. _So much for warming to me_. "Don't we have to go?"

"We have a few minutes yet," he said, then added, "I thought that you might be late. We don't have to be before the judge until nine."

"Ah," she said, then sipped again. He had even had them add the sugar she had asked them to add. She'd give him this much: he had an amazing attention for detail. "It's a very good cappuccino. Thanks again."

"No trouble at all."

As they walked down to the Royal Courts of Justice, he advised her what she could and could not write about: no case details for privacy's sake, just descriptors of the procedure. "I brought you a pad of paper and a pen," he said, "so that you'll be a little less conspicuous."

It was once they arrived to the correct hearing room that she met Mark Darcy's client, or rather, clients; a foreign-born man who was fighting extradition back to a very dangerous home country, and his wife, a young Englishwoman who had been an aid worker in that turbulent area.

"Surely I can mention he's trying to stay in the UK," she said. "I mean, there's nothing secretive about that."

"I'd prefer that you didn't," he said. "Politically, it could be very sensitive."

"So what do I say the hearing's about, then?"

"You just say it's a routine legal hearing," Mark said.

"Don't you think that I could use this story to help humanise their plight, emphasise the importance of—"

"Just a routine hearing," he interrupted.

She gave him a bit of a glaring look—surely nothing to rival any of his withering ones—as she took the pad and pencil from him.

She sat in the gallery through the morning-long dull discussion, during which they were picking apart and interpreting the law in ways that she didn't pretend to understand. She failed to understand why they were trying to send him back at all; his marriage to a UK citizen should have been more than enough, or at least that's how she understood it to work. She was grateful for the coffee to get her brain cells firing this much, but desperate for another, and for a wee, as well.

At a recess break, after a run to the loos, she found the little café that was actually within the Royal Courts of Justice itself, and also found Eleanor Heaney, the client of Mark's, looking a bit bereft. Neither Mark nor Eleanor's husband, Kafir Aghani, were nearby.

"Hi," she said to the woman. "Where's Mr Darcy?"

"He's having some kind of important off-the-record sidebar or something."

"Ah," said Bridget. "Oh. Can I buy you a coffee?"

"Oh, um, yes, that'd be nice. Thanks."

"Do you think your husband might want one, too?" she asked, assuming he, too, was availing himself of the toilets."

"I think he would, thank you."

She brought the three coffees back to the table just as Kafir Aghani joined them.

"I don't know if I understand exactly what this is all about," Bridget said, "but I bet this is a bit stressful."

Eleanor nodded. "This is just a hearing to try to get the request dismissed altogether. This part of the process could go on for months and months. It's already been on-going for more than four years."

"Just over four and a half," amended Kafir.

"How…" Bridget said; she was at a loss for words. "How absolutely dreadful."

"That's an understatement," Eleanor said tiredly. She reached for her husband's hand with her free one, and offered him a warm smile that lit up her face. "But whatever happens, I'll be here for him." The love and affection Kafir Aghani had for his wife in return was all too obvious to her.

"That's so sweet," Bridget said with all sincerity. They all took a moment to drink their coffees.

Eleanor cradled her coffee cup with both hands, then spoke again, much more cautiously than before. "You know, Mr Darcy keeps saying he doesn't want us to speak with the press, but then he brings you along to the hearing. It's very confusing."

"I'm doing a piece for _The Independent_ ," she said, then explained the series in general, and her pitch specifically. "This is more about him than the case."

"Oh," she said. "Well, he's an excellent choice for a profile. His reputation for knowledge of the law, especially when it comes to human rights… he really is the best. And we have really needed the best."

She smiled, wishing she could ask for details on why, but she did not. "I hope he's able to bring you the outcome you want." Bridget noticed their hands were still linked. "Well, the one you _deserve_ , because you're clearly in love and deserve to stay together."

Eleanor looked thoughtful, then to Bridget's surprise, tears welled in the woman's eyes. "He deserves to stay alive," she murmured, more to herself than anything… then looked to Bridget quickly. "Oh, God, I shouldn't have said that."

"It's all right," she said, though privately, her heart began to race. _Deserves to stay alive? What on earth does she mean by that—is it that dangerous in his home country?_ "I won't say a thing. I promise."

Eleanor looked at her earnestly, then smiled. "It's strange," she said, "since we only just met, but… I believe you."

"Thank you," said Bridget with a smile. "You are both so lovely. I'm so nervous about screwing this story up."

"What else have you written about in the press?" Kafir asked.

Bridget's mind flashed to her thrilling but ultimately ill-fated interview with the delightful actor who'd played Mr Darcy… and felt her face flush with embarrassment. "This is my first _serious_ piece," she said instead.

"I hope it brings you many more assignments," he said.

"Me too," she confided. "I hate my day job, if I'm to be honest. My real job."

"What is it that you do?"

"I work in publishing. I read through what's called the slush pile, and let me tell you, there are some real winners there." After a beat, she added, "And by winners, I mean total and absolute stinkers."

They both chuckled, it was really the first time she'd seen them with genuine smiles, and she felt proud for putting them at ease. "What's the worst you've read?" asked Eleanor. "I mean, if you can say."

"No harm in saying," said Bridget. "A really, really bad philosophical take on history through different cheeses."

"I'm sorry, did you say ' _cheeses_ '?" said Eleanor. "As in Muenster? Wensleydale? Emmenthal?"

"Unfortunately, I did."

They both began laughing again.

"Ah," said Kafir. "Here comes Mr Darcy now."

He had returned from his sidebar discussion to advise them that the recess was almost over. The expression on Mark's face spoke of his concern that they had been speaking on taboo subjects. "Ms Jones was kind enough to buy us coffees and keep us company."

"Kind, indeed," he said tersely. "Come. We're about to start again."

…

Mark had no idea about what they had all been speaking as he was approaching, but he was pretty sure he'd overheard Eleanor listing off types of cheese. Fortunately, this curiosity did not distract him from his arguments, and they ended the morning hearing on what he felt was a successful note, though it had taken longer than he'd thought, and at nearly two in the afternoon, he felt the lack of lunch quite acutely.

"We'll return here for the decision after lunch," Mark said as they left the courtroom. "Ms Jones, why don't you call it an early day, since there's no reason for you to continue to sit in the courtroom?"

"Why doesn't Ms Jones join us for lunch?" Eleanor Heaney piped up.

Bridget looked up. "Oh, no, I appreciate the offer, but…" she began, looking to Mark. "I'm sure that you need to discuss your case, and you should speak freely."

"She's correct," said Mark. To Bridget, he said, "You can use your afternoon to transcribe your notes from today."

She nodded; he was glad she saw it his way. She turned to his clients. "It was a very great pleasure meeting you both. I'll be rooting for you." Then she turned back to him. "Until tomorrow morning, then. Eight a.m.?"

"Nine will do," he said. "See you then."

"I'll bring the coffee," she said.

For lunch, for maximum privacy, he decided to order takeaway to be brought to the office, and they had it within twenty minutes. _God bless London and modern technology_ , he thought as he dug into his curry.

"So things went well today?" Kafir asked. "Things went our way?"

Mark nodded. "At least, I think so. The judge seemed to agree with my interpretation of the law as it stands," he said. "Which, if he does, it paves the way for a formal hearing to get the extradition request dropped, and for you both to finally be left in peace to live your lives."

"I certainly hope so," said Eleanor. "Why on earth they insist our marriage is only one of convenience is…" She trailed off. "I know. It's a political hot potato and they want any excuse to send him back to that hellhole."

Mark knew she was right, and said nothing. He very much hoped the same.

"You know," Eleanor ventured, reaching to take her husband's hand, "it might be worth our while to get our story out there, after all. If the public got behind us… it might be harder to so blatantly force him out of the country."

Mark narrowed his eyes. They had never brought up the idea of appealing to the public through the press before today, so he was naturally suspicious of the timing. "You didn't speak to Ms Jones about case-related information, did you?"

"No, of course not," said Eleanor.

"Good," he said. "Journalists are trained to ingratiate themselves in order to gain trust… and the risk of betrayal is just too high." Eleanor seemed about to reply when he noticed the time, realised they'd been talking more than eating, and said, "Come on, let's finish eating so we can get back down there for the decision."

…

Furious.

When Bridget pulled up a browser on her netbook at the pub she'd stopped in for lunch, she immediately got to searching for any information that she could about Kafir Aghani, and what she found made her absolutely furious. The papers were asserting as fact that the attempt to run him out of the UK by claiming that his marriage to Eleanor was a sham, and therefore nullifying any legal reason for him to remain in the country. They didn't mention anything about the work he'd done to advance human rights in his native country (one of the things she _had_ understood from sitting in on the hearing), nor did they mention the danger he felt by the local government if he returned there.

She had seen them together. She had known instantly that they were in love.

She was almost too angry to eat. Instead, she decided to return to Mark Darcy's office after she'd finished her lunch and make her case for adding case details into her story to help Kafir Aghani. She couldn't imagine sitting back and not helping him if she could.

When she finished, she went back to Inns of Court, only to learn that they had already been dismissed, so she went over to Mark's office and rapped on the door.

"Come in."

She didn't know what she had expected to find, but the funereal air was not it. She brought her brows together. "What's happened?"

Mark glanced up to her from his desk. "The decision," he said; he looked utterly blindsided. "I thought the judge was persuaded by my arguments, but he evidently wasn't. The extradition proceedings are to go on as scheduled, after all."

"Oh," said Bridget, glancing to both Eleanor and Kafir, who were somewhere between gutted and despondent. "Surely not all hope is lost, is it?"

"No, it's not," Mark said; she wasn't sure she believed him. "It's just more of an uphill battle than before."

It couldn't have been a more perfect setup for her proposal. "Would it help," she began, "if I included facts of Kafir's situation to counter the prejudicial crap that the papers have already been printing?"

He stared at her silently for a few minutes, as if comprehending the implications of what she was saying. "You've been doing some research."

She offered a little smile. "Well, yes. I could hardly call myself a journalist if I didn't," she said. "So, what do you say?"

"I'm not convinced there would be any benefit," he said. "This case is not going to be decided on public opinion."

Bridget glanced to Eleanor and Kafir. They looked surprised. "In a perfect world, sure, but I think the public's opinion is already firming up. Correcting what's already out there just levels the playing field."

"Ms Jones," Mark said, "I think you should take my advice: go home and work on the article _The Independent_ is presumably paying you to write."

She firmed her jaw and fixed him with a piercing gaze, furious again, this time at the being utterly dismissed from his presence. "Until tomorrow morning, then, Mr Darcy."

…

If there was one thing that Mark Darcy hated, it was when people tried to tell him how best to do his job. He exhaled sharply as the door closed behind Bridget. Enough of that for today.

Or so he thought.

He looked to Eleanor and to Kafir, and was met with expressions he didn't expect.

"Yes?" he said. "What's on your mind?"

"I have a great deal of respect for you and the work you've done for us and others, sir," Eleanor said, "but on this I can't help wondering if you've absolutely lost yours."

"Pardon?"

"I think she's saying that she agrees with Ms Jones' assessment," Kafir said quietly, "because I do, too. Public opinion shouldn't come into it, but it obviously does, and already has. If the public make enough noise, put on enough pressure…"

He brought his brows together. "Ms Jones is doing this story because of her… connection with one of the partners in chambers," he said. "I understand her previous journalistic experience consists of a single interview with an actor."

"Oh, she told us," Eleanor said. "This is her first serious story. And still I think her instincts are correct here."

He glanced between Eleanor and her husband; they both looked extremely earnest. Maybe there was something he wasn't seeing… or maybe he was just allowing emotions to wash over him, too. He took in a deep breath, then exhaled. "We've had a very long, very stressful day, and things didn't go the way we expected," he said. "Let's come back to this tomorrow, when our minds are refreshed again."

Eleanor began to nod. "Good idea," she said. "Sorry about that outburst, there. Perhaps I am feeling a bit too desperate."

"Don't worry about it," Mark said, offering a smile. "It's been a source of stress for all of us, but for you especially. Go home and have a nice, quiet night in."

After seeing the two of them out, he sighed heavily, then packed his files into his attaché. He needed a nice, quiet night in, too.

When he walked out of his office, he practically walked into Jeremy, who was also apparently on his way out of the door. "Hey there," Jeremy said.

"Hi," Mark said. Normally he'd be glad to see him, but the day had already been so tiring, he hadn't the mental bandwidth for any more conversation.

"How was day two with Bee?"

Mark stopped in his tracks. "Bee," he said angrily.

"You know, Ms Jones."

"I know to whom you refer," Mark said. Lowering his voice, he added, "Perhaps a little discretion is warranted."

Jeremy couldn't have looked more confused. "Discretion?"

"I thought you had reconciled with your wife," Mark said. "Then to be so bold with your latest mistress—"

"My _what_?" Jeremy interrupted. And then he began to laugh. "Are you joking? With Bee? My _wife's best friend_?" He was nearly breathless with laughter now. "Even if I didn't think of her as a little sister—which I _do_ —my attempt to seduce her would result in Bee tying my bollocks about my neck in a perfect bow. Or my wife. Take your pick."

It was Mark's turn to be confused. "So she's… you didn't have a date on Monday night?"

"I did," Jeremy said slowly, "with Magda." He seemed to be rolling back the filmstrip in his mind. "Oh. This is about offering Bee a ride then my mentioning the date. I was going to bring her with me, because she was going to watch the children." At that moment something clicked. "Wait. Did you think she got this assignment because she was a good shag? I hardly have sway at _The Independent_."

Mark could not think of the last time he had felt quite so mortified. "I don't know what to say," Mark said after what felt like an eternity of agony. "Please accept my apology for being a total arse."

"I don't know which bothers me more," Jeremy said, "that you thought I'd be stupid enough to cheat on my wife again, or that you think that little of my judgment that I'd—"

"I know, I know," Mark said, holding up his hand, shaking his head. "Where my head was in making such awful assumptions, I will never know…"

At long last, Jeremy smiled. "You're only human," he said, "and to be honest, it's nice to have such confirmation." He brought up his hand to pat Mark's shoulder. "No harm done." He then chuckled. "I'll never tell Bee, that's for sure."

With that they said their good evenings and parted ways. As Mark drove home, he fell into a contemplative state. He realised that he did know, after all, where his assumptions had come from, after all: it had been a Christmas not too long ago that the meltdown of his brand-new marriage had occurred, the double betrayal of his new wife sleeping with his best man. The residual feelings that the season always brought to him were obviously still very close to the surface. His marriage ending so abruptly hadn't been the destruction of a pure and perfect love, by any means; far from it. For all intents and purposes, it had been less marriage, more merger. She was someone for whom he'd had high regard, both professionally and socially, and they'd seemed to be compatible as companions as well as lovers. He hadn't been in love with her, but he had cared enough to think of it as love, and with the marriage came an agreement to remain faithful to one another in that respect. To Mark, there had been every benefit to making the partnership legal through marriage, and few perceived drawbacks.

Except, of course, for the infidelity; she had broken that promise, and after that, he could never trust her again.

He rolled to a stop in front of his own house before he knew it; he switched off the engine, and with a heavy exhale of breath, he headed into the house. Onward to dinner, onward to a quiet night, though perhaps quiet in a way that wasn't necessarily desirable. Quiet in a lonely way.

After dropping off his work things, checking that his appearance didn't look too rough (it didn't), and grabbing his book, he left again, for a seat at his favourite restaurant. Not so much favourite as regular, he realised. He barely had to be seated that a glass of red wine appeared at his side, and shortly after his meal would appear. They knew him well there.

As he ate, he found that while he had his book open, he hardly took in a word; when his eyes went over the same paragraph several times he resigned himself to no progress at all, closed the book, and set it aside. His thoughts returned to—hell, had never actually left—the misunderstanding centred around Jeremy and Bridget. He was glad that Jeremy was not about to go and tell her about the foolish assumptions he had made, but the more that he thought about it, the more he realised that although he had never said directly what he had thought about her, he had surely expressed this opinion in other ways, and that had not been fair. He would have to make it up to her. Maybe bring a coffee in the morning as a peace offering.

He thought too about Jeremy; how happy Mark had been to hear that the date on Monday had been with his own wife. He was really very pleased that Jeremy was really making the effort to make up for his past mistakes. He had met Magda at the Law Council Dinner and at a handful of other social engagements, and had liked her very much indeed.

Thinking of Magda, Mark then remembered what Jeremy had said about Bridget being her best friend. Such a strange occurrence, really, that he and Bridget had had so few degrees of separation, yet had never actually met before this assignment.

He was torn from these thoughts when he felt his mobile vibrating in his pocket. He saw instantly that it was Eleanor, and after the day's events he felt he should take the call. He spoke quietly so not to disturb the other diners in the place. "Mark Darcy," he said. "Hello, Ms Heaney."

"I am so sorry to disturb you," she said without preamble, "and at so late in the evening—" He glanced to his watch; it was half nine, not exactly midnight, but he knew she did not like to bother him outside of business hours. "—but I did not want to leave it until tomorrow. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Yes, I'm just finishing dinner," he said.

"Oh, I'm so sorry again."

"No, it's fine," he said; under normal circumstances he might have been annoyed, but he could immediately tell that whatever was on her mind was very concerning to her. "I'm quite near to your flat, actually. Shall I drop by, and you can tell me what's on your mind?"

"If it's no trouble," she said. "I'll put on the kettle, make some tea. Camomile?"

He smiled. "That'd be nice. See you soon."

Mark paid his bill, then was soon on his way to their flat. Eleanor was waiting by the entryphone, apparently, because she answered immediately to confirm it was him and buzz him in.

"So, what's troubling you that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Eleanor and Kafir shared a glance, then he nodded. She turned and spoke. "I would have come in the morning but I didn't want to put you on the spot with Ms Jones there."

"Put me on the spot?" he asked. "About what?"

"We have been talking this over even more, and we've decided that we would really, really like for Ms Jones to include our story in her piece in _The Independent_. I know what you said about journalists gaining trust in order to gain advantage, but I honestly… I don't think she'd do that. The court seems so dead-set against allowing Kafir to stay despite your solid arguments; they don't think anyone's watching, and they'd just as soon wash their hands of a man who's considered a terrorist in his home country. I think we have to present the humanity of this situation. Public outcry is the only way to put the pressure on the government. I'm convinced of this."

"It could backfire," said Mark. "The current political climate is not friendly to foreigners, and one who's considered an insurgent at home…"

"The worst that would happen would be what, exactly? His deportation?" she asked, her cheeks high with colour. "That seems an almost certainty now. What have we got to lose?"

She certainly had a point. Mark glanced to Kafir. He knew that the man was not a very confident English speaker—despite being quite proficient in it—and therefore left a lot of the speaking to his wife. "Are you in agreement, here?"

"Yes, absolutely," Kafir said. "I will risk any hateful public responses against me personally for a better chance at remaining in the UK with Eleanor."

Mark had to admit that Eleanor's impassioned argument was winning him over. Knowing that Bridget wasn't just a girl Jeremy was trying to help get ahead because he fancied her—that she had gotten the gig on her own merit—helped Mark to trust her more. That his clients' trust in her had been so easily secured, that she had put them at ease so readily, helped to cement his change in opinion.

"All right," he said quietly. "I will talk to her tomorrow, though you can be sure I'll be helping to carefully control what it is that she includes. But never mind that right now." He offered a smile. "Thank you for fighting me on this."

Eleanor smiled, then chuckled a little. "That's got to be the first time I've _ever_ heard that particular sentence."

Mark offered a small smile. Now that he had accepted the idea, his mind began to turn over the possibility that he might allow her an exclusive interview in addition to her story. "I'll leave you to take the rest of the night to relax now that you've got that off your chest."

She smiled. "You take it easy, too," she said. "And let me know if you need us for anything."

"I will." After a moment. "Good night."

He too felt a little better after getting that settled with them, but knew he would feel better in the morning after straightening things out with Bridget.


	2. Chapter 2: Positive Progress

A Day in the Life

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 33,624  
Rating: M / R (For Chapter 3)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 2: Positive Progress Wednesday, 6 Jan

Bridget wasn't sure if she was meant to be there as early as she had the day before, but thought she had best not press her luck, and pushed herself to be there at nine a.m. as he had directed. In actuality, she got in closer to half nine; she braced herself for a talking-to and a stern look.

The light was on in the office, but to her surprise the door was ajar; she approached it, rapping on the door, and as she did, it opened. She saw Mark at his desk; he looked up. As he got to his feet, he offered a smile.

"Ah, good morning," he said.

"Good morning," she said cautiously.

Mark gestured to a paper cup and a yoghurt pot from Pret. "A cappuccino for you," he said. "I wasn't sure about the Five Berry Bowl, but Debbie the secretary has one nearly every day…"

 _This is how Bob Cratchit must have felt when he got to work after Christmas Day_ , she thought _._ "Thank you, that's very kind," she said. "Sorry I'm late."

"It's all right," he said, taking his seat again. He continued to look at her, though. "I… I wanted to apologise for yesterday. After further discussing it with my clients, I have reversed my decision on your piece." She stared uncomprehendingly at him. He went on. "What I mean to say is, you can include the case as part of your story."

 _Indeed, Ebenezer's gone 'round the bend,_ she thought. "I am not sure what to say," she said, staring at him. "Thank you, obviously…. Did you by chance receive a visit last night by three ghosts?"

To her surprise, he began to laugh. "Yes, I suppose so, if you want to consider Jeremy, Ms Heaney and Mr Aghani the three ghosts," he said. "Let's just say that I have had blinders on, and the three of them helped remove them." He gestured to the desk again. "Go ahead and have a seat before that cappuccino goes cold."

She slipped out of her coat, set her bag down, then took a seat. She pulled open the yoghurt pot, then took a sip from the top of the cappuccino. After a spoonful or two of yoghurt, she asked, "What's on your docket today?"

"Well, I had another appointment to meet with Alastair McKinney for most of he day, but he emailed to let me know he'd have to reschedule to next week. So… I was thinking I could ask Ms Heaney and Mr Aghani to come down, if they were free, to speak with you."

"Yes, I'd love that, actually," she said. "Thanks."

As she finished her yoghurt and her cappuccino, he made the call to Eleanor. She pondered the change in his personality since the day before, and wondered about the nature of his blinders. She could understand how his clients might have helped him to see the light regarding building up Kafir's humanity, but that didn't fully account for the turnaround in his attitude towards her. He had mentioned Jeremy, too; perhaps Jeremy had said something to him to help in that regard. She might just have to thank him for it. This new, improved Mark Darcy was vastly better.

He advised that the two of them would be there as soon as they could. "I can finish some paperwork, and you can begin work on editing your piece," he said. "Do feel free to ask me questions as needed."

"I will, thank you."

She pulled out her netbook and began to work on her piece and got so deep into the writing that the rap on the door startled her from her work. She glanced at the time, shocked to see that it was nearing half eleven.

"Come on in," Mark called, rising to his feet again. As expected, it was Eleanor and Kafir. "I appreciate your coming in on such short notice," Mark said.

"We had a feeling you might ring us up," Eleanor said with a smile. She turned to Bridget, extending her hand. "Nice to see you again, Ms Jones."

She took it with a smile, but said, "Oh, please feel free to call me Bridget, both of you. No need for such formality."

"Then you must call me Eleanor," she said, then tilted her head towards her husband, "and him Kafir."

"Agreed." Bridget glanced to Mark to ask him about exactly where they should do this just in time to see an odd expression pass over his features. Instead, she asked, "Shall we have a seat and begin?" They agreed, and each took a seat in Mark's copious office. "Mind you," she said with a sheepish smile, "I don't have any questions thought up in advance, because I didn't know I was doing this in advance. So I guess we could just start talking and see where it goes." She looked to Mark again. "And if anything goes out of bounds, I'm sure Mr Darcy will let us know. Oh. I should record this… do you mind me recording this?"

"No, that's fine," Mark said. "In fact, that's preferable, for your reference."

She pulled out her phone, tapping the screen a few times and then setting it down onto the edge of the desk. She opened her netbook again and looked up. "So, Eleanor. How did you meet Kafir?" she asked, then grinned. "Was it love at first sight?"

Eleanor chuckled. "Actually, it wasn't," she said. "I was working as an aid worker when we met, and he was really rather hard-edged and rude to me. But under the circumstances, in retrospect, it was understandable."

"What about you?" she asked of Kafir.

Kafir offered a smile. "She attracted my eye, and she wasn't like any of the women I had known growing up. But no, not love at first sight. I never thought we would fall in love and get married, not in a thousand years."

"Oh, but you _did_ fancy her?" Bridget asked quickly with another grin.

She swore he blushed.

"Skipping ahead a little," Bridget continued, "you did fall in love… and you got married, was that there, or here in the UK?"

"In the UK."

"And what was it that you were doing in your home country that got you in such trouble?" she asked, then added, "Come to think of it, what is your home country?"

He smiled. "We like to think of it as Kurdistan," he said, "but you won't find it on any map. And this is part of what, as you say, got me into trouble."

…

Mark found that he hardly had to speak up at all during their conversation—the interview, he supposed he should think of it—and was, in fact, rather fascinated by the whole thing. He was amazed at how quickly, how thoroughly, they had both opened up to her, and it also impressed him how affected she became as she listened to the story they told. He also learned a few things that he hadn't known, which, considering the long professional relationship he'd had with them, was a surprise.

When the interview ended, the three of them stood, and Mark was astounded by Bridget, still looking quite emotional, spontaneously reaching out for and then hugging Eleanor. "I really, _really_ hope that I can help," she said, drawing back, and looking at Kafir. "People who could hear this story and not feel for you both just aren't human. They're not."

"Thank you for listening," Kafir said. "I feel like if just more people had the chance to listen… they'd understand exactly what we're fighting, and why."

Bridget nodded her agreement, then held out her hand. "It's been a pleasure." As she shook Kafir's hand, she looked back to Eleanor. "Sorry about that, if a hug was too much," she said. "I was caught up in my feelings there."

"It's quite all right," Eleanor said. Then she looked to Mark. "Thank you, Mr Darcy. You made the right call here. This is going to help; I can just feel it."

Mark nodded once. "You're welcome."

"We should go, leave you to the rest of your day," Eleanor said, then turned for her coat. "Let us know if you need anything more, all right? Mr Darcy can give you my number." She lifted her hand as if to wave. "Bye."

"Bye."

With that the two of them left.

"Well!" said Bridget. "That was _amazing_!"

Mark had to agree it had gone very well, even if he wouldn't have used that exact word. He only offered a little smile and a nod. "I look forward to seeing what you write," he said. He glanced to his desk clock, saw it was now past the noon hour. "Let's break for lunch," he said.

"All right," she said, then started to stow her things. "What time do you want me back?"

"I'll treat for lunch," he said. "There are several excellent places nearby."

"Yes, I went to one with Jeremy the other day," she said, looking a bit surprised. "You'll treat?"

"Yes," he said. "Is that a problem?"

"Oh, absolutely not," she said, "at least I don't think so, with me writing a story about you. Just unexpected."

Mark heard the knock on the door before the door swung open. It was Jeremy. "Saw Aghani and Heaney leaving, thought I'd come in and see how my mistress is doing," Jeremy said with a comical wink.

Mark felt his stomach turn to ice. Bridget turned and stared at Jeremy, then at Mark again. "Okay, I'm going to have to ask what the hell that means."

Jeremy had the good sense to look abashed. "Sorry, sorry," he said. "Mark initially thought you got the story—"

"Oh my God, you thought it was because I was _sleeping with Jeremy_?" she said, looking back to Mark.

"I asked him not to tell you," Mark said, "because I was mortified to ever have thought it."

To his surprise, though, instead of slapping him, storming out, or similar, she began to laugh. "What a _ridiculous_ idea!" she said. "He's like a brother to me."

Jeremy was smiling now, albeit hesitantly, glad to see she wasn't furious with Mark, or that Mark wasn't furious with him.

"I am very sorry," Mark said.

She considered him for a moment. "I do suppose it would look a bit mean if I didn't accept," she said with a little smile. "As for how I'm doing, well, I was just interviewing Eleanor and Kafir for my story."

"Interviewing?" Jeremy said, glancing to Mark, brows raised. "That is a first."

Mark explained, "They convinced me that we need the rising tide of public opinion to win."

"Well done, then." After a pause, he said, "Well, I'm off. Carry on with whatever you were about to carry on with."

"Lunch, as it happens," said Mark. "To thank Ms Jones for a job well done."

"Oh, you should try that new bistro around the corner. Just took Mags there the other night. Delightful. French."

Mark knew which one he meant. Bridget looked over to him. "I'm game, I guess," she said, "though my French is bollocks."

"Perfect. See you when you're back."

After locking his office up, the two of them headed down to the street. "I feel like I'm sort of a regular around here now," she said, taking in a deep breath of the crisp January air. "So it's not far?"

"Not at all," he said.

There was a moment or two of silence before she spoke again. "I just wanted to say thank you one more time, Mr Darcy, for allowing me to broaden my story to include their full story. I think it'll have a huge impact."

He considered when he had just called her Ms Jones and she hadn't suggested he should call him otherwise. He decided to offer first. "You're welcome, once again," he said, "and feel free, please, to call me Mark."

"All right," she said. "Why?" He looked over to her; she had a look of concentration, perhaps confusion, on her face.

"What do you mean 'why'?"

"Well, I just assumed that you kept your professional contacts 'Mr This' or 'Ms That'. Like your solicitor, or your clients."

"But I call Jeremy by his given name."

"He's a friend who happens to work in your chambers, right?"

Mark shoved his hands into his pockets. He hadn't really given that much thought before, how much at a distance he kept his longest-tenure clients by calling them by their last names. "You have a point," he said. "Perhaps that's something I should remedy. I was just trying to remain respectful, but maybe it doesn't seem very… friendly."

They arrived to the bistro and were seated relatively promptly; after ordering their lunch, Mark carried on with his train of thought. "Jeremy and I worked together, and then became friends," he said, "but it's true that I don't really address any of the other partners so formally."

"I do understand why you'd want to be respectful," she said, "but it does come off as a bit…" She trailed off.

"Cold," he supplied, thinking of what Jeremy had said.

"And I've seen you speaking for your clients," she said. "I wouldn't say you were cold." Just then their drinks were delivered; she took her wine in hand. "So, _Mark_ ," she said, particular emphasis on his name, "please feel free to call me Bridget, all right?"

He smiled, picking up his own wine. "All right, then."

Shortly after this their food arrived—a salmon dish for her, beef and wild mushroom dish for him—and after only a few bites, he could only think how right Jeremy had been to recommend this place.

"You know," he said, "my mother spoke of you and reminded me of our shared childhood."

"That's… random."

He smiled. "I mean before you and I were supposed to meet at the Alconburys."

"Oh. At the Turkey Curry Buffet," she said. "I stayed home to prepare for the interview. What a weirdly small world, though. So what did you remember?"

"That you used to run 'round with no clothes on when we played in the paddling pool," he said; as soon as he did, he regretted it. It seemed a bit too much considering he had only just graduated to using her given name. But she laughed, even if he caught her skin tinge red.

"Ahh. My mother has been reminding me about this for weeks now," she said, then sipped her wine. "Hmm. So has Una Alconbury, come to think. What on earth is the fixation there?"

"Haven't the faintest idea," Mark said. "Perhaps they like to remind us that to them, we are still children."

"Hmm, perhaps," she said, suddenly pensive. "Though that would make sense, I guess. That could be why they were trying to push a connection on us."

"I don't understand," he said.

"We already knew each other," she said, "so obviously they might think it natural to pair us off, even if I was only four." She shrugged a little. "Honestly, this was nicer, even though you were really scary at first."

He looked down to his plate, cutting off another portion of lunch to mask how close to the bone that had come. "That's why Jeremy wanted me to do the story," he said at last. "He thought my public image needed warming up." When she didn't reply, he looked up again. Her expression was difficult to define.

"I'm not sure before today that the article would have helped," she said sheepishly. "But I think today will change things."

He was very glad to hear it, though his public image was really the last thing that concerned him. He cared only about doing the best job he could do for his clients. "Jeremy will be very pleased," he said. "So when will your piece run?"

"Not sure," she said. "I have until midnight to send it in."

"Have you got much work to do to add this all in?"

"A little, but I have oodles of time," she said.

"Still," he said. "You might as well take the afternoon to work on it. I have a meeting for which I'll be stepping out for an hour or so, but you're welcome to work in my office, in case you have questions."

…

Bridget nearly turned down the offer, but thought better of it; she would have much better focus in his distraction-free office, and it would be convenient to get immediate feedback should she have questions. "Thanks, that'd be helpful."

At the conclusion of lunch they returned to his office, but not before stopping for another coffee. "To keep me awake, get me through the afternoon," she said.

"You know, that's mostly a placebo effect," he said.

"I don't care what it is, as long as it works," she replied, fixing a lid on the cup.

She opened her netbook shortly after they got back and got directly back to work; when she looked up to ask him her questions she realised he had gone, probably to his meeting. Instead, she made some notes on a notepad, stood up, and stretched her arms over her head, realising that it had been a long time since she'd sit down, and since she'd finished her coffee. Time for a break to the loo.

Upon her return, though, she discovered something she hadn't previously known: the office door was set to automatically lock when closed. "Shit," she muttered, turning the handle and rattling the door a few times futilely for good measure. She looked down the hallway, then sighed. She really hoped he would be back soon, because the thought of pacing around out there for ten, twenty, even thirty minutes…. She leaned against the wall and tried to be patient, but she really wasn't very good at being patient. _If only I had my mobile_ , she thought.

By the time Mark returned, she had slid down along the wall to sit upon the floor. His approaching footsteps alerted her to his presence and she scrambled to stand, grateful at least that she had worn trousers that day and not a skirt. He regarded her with apprehension. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Locked myself out when I went to use the loo," she said sheepishly.

"Hope you haven't been out here long."

"Not too long," she said.

He smiled. "Hope you had a productive afternoon," he said, turning his key in the door. "Well, before your loo break."

"Yeah, I did. The time flew by," she said as they stepped into the office. "I had a few questions for you."

"Ah." He stepped up behind her as she sat down. "Fire away."

So fire away she did, verifying how long Kafir had been his client, and to put into layman's terms the nature of exactly what the man faced back in his home country. "I mean, surely they wouldn't really kill him," said Bridget. "Would they?"

"I'm afraid they would," Mark said. "Taken into custody, given a trial for show, then summarily executed. He's too dangerous to them to be free."

"Wouldn't that just make him a martyr?"

"It appears to be a risk they're willing to take," he said.

Her shoulders slumped at this depressing news. "I really hope I can do this justice," she said, staring at her paragraphs of words.

"I'm sure you'll do your best," he said neutrally. "Was that all?"

"For now," she said. "I'll get back to it, then."

He went around the desk and returned to work, too, and they stayed that way, working on each of their respective tasks for another hour or so, at least until she noted it was already after five. "Oh," she said aloud, then, remembering where she was, looked up to Mark. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he said, looking up too to the clock on his desk. "Well, I guess the day is winding down."

"I appreciate you letting me work here," she said. "If I'd gone back to my flat a million things would have distracted me and I never would have been able to finish on time."

"No trouble at all," he said. "May I read it before you send it in?"

"Sure," she said. "I can email it to you later."

"Of course," he said. He reached over towards his desk. "Here's my card," he said, handing one to her. "Has my phone number and email address on it. Feel free to call if you have any other questions."

"Sure, okay," she said, taking it and tucking it into a pocket of her messenger bag. "Thank you for everything. I appreciate it."

He nodded once in a curt, professional manner. "Thank you, too," he said.

"Don't thank me yet," she said. "It could still turn out to be crap."

He regarded her thoughtfully, then said, "Something tells me it won't."

She picked up something quick for dinner from (again) Pret, a chicken avocado wrap, before heading back to her flat. _Starting to feel like a regular there, too_ , she thought as she unwrapped it. As she nibbled, she reread and typed and tweaked until she had the story just as she wanted it. She glanced at the clock as she did—nearly nine in the evening, so she was cutting it close—then dashed to the loo before digging out the card he had given her and sent it off. A half-second after she pressed Send, she realised she had absent-mindedly attached the wrong file.

Muttering under her breath, she sent a second email with the correct attachment, and hoped he'd read it before she had to send it in. She also hoped he would have the sense to not look in the first file, a list of perfect minibreaks, places she wouldn't mind going alone, or with her ultimate boss.

Within a few minutes, as she was in the loo scrubbing her face clear of makeup, her email chimed a new message. She dashed to the netbook, and to her surprise, it was Mark Darcy already responding to her email.

 _Bridget,_

 _Thanks for the draft of your piece. I have a few suggestions that I've marked in, but all relate to missing words, and the need to perhaps to run your spellcheck. I wouldn't add or remove a thing, regarding the content. It's rather good._

 _Please let me know on which date your story will run._

 _Regards,_

 _Mark_

The closer she'd gotten to the end of the email, the broader her smile had grown. She imagined that one Mark Darcy "It's rather good" equalled an enthusiastic squealing and foot stomping from just about anyone else.

She then realised that there was more to the email. She scrolled down a little to read it.

 _P.S. Never go to Thailand from July through October. It's the rainy season. And I'd recommend against going anywhere with Daniel Cleaver._

At this she felt herself come over a deep crimson, despite being alone. He had at least looked at the beginning of the mistakenly sent document, and the thought mortified her. The statement about the boss she fancied, Daniel Cleaver, though—whose name she'd included on the document—baffled her. Did he somehow know Daniel?

Her curiosity got the better of her and she decided to reply.

 _Thank you. Will be sending off immediately. I don't understand the comment about Daniel Cleaver, though. Why?_

Shortly after that, she got a terse reply.

 _Trust me on this, for your own good._

Since he didn't seem inclined to further explain, she decided for whatever reason he just didn't like Daniel and was being a bit of a condescending jerk. She emailed the actual, correct piece to the editor at the paper. Then, satisfied with a job well done, she closed the netbook and got ready for bed.

…

Mark pushed himself back from his desk, aggravated at what he had just seen in the document she'd accidentally sent to him. Bloody Cleaver. He had tried to rein in his temper and hadn't been wholly successful. To him, it was like a slow-motion car crash he had no power to stop.

He rose from the chair and prepared for bed, determined to put it out of his mind.

Thursday, 7 Jan – Friday, 8 Jan

Upon reaching the office that morning, he opened his laptop and checked his email to find a short message from Bridget, equally as terse as his last message had been to her.

 _Am told that story will appear in Sunday's edition. Independent v. happy with change of focus. Really do hope it helps the cause._

After a moment, he sent a short reply.

 _Thank you again. I look forward to its appearance._

He then moved on to the next message, and carried on with his day: meeting with a new client, meeting with Alastair McKinney, lunch with Natasha Glenville, an appearance in court. He had to admit that the day had already started out far duller and less interesting without his journalistic shadow. He hadn't even been able to pass the Pret without a small grin.

Friday was almost a mirror of Thursday, with continuation of court appearances, a quick lunch at the Royal Courts, and a quick meeting of the partners in chambers. Mark gave them an update on the story in which he and his clients would be appearing, that the story would be appearing in the Sunday edition.

Before he knew it, he was on his way out for dinner. His favourite place with his current book; it was quiet and comfortable, like so many nights he'd spent there.

Despite the routine of it all, he felt a little disconcerted. The status quo didn't seem quite so palatable as it used to, and he wasn't entirely sure why. The only thing that had been different recently was, of course, having a journalist in the form of a childhood friend in relatively constant company for the majority of the week. How this alone could be affecting him was a mystery—although during his lunch with Natasha, he couldn't help thinking what terrible company she had been in comparison to Bridget.

Sunday, 10 Jan – Monday, 11 Jan

A ringing telephone on Sunday woke Mark that morning, even before he'd gotten a chance to see the paper for himself. It was his mother, of all people, and she was audibly excited.

"I've just seen _The Independent_ , Mark," she said. "Why did you say nothing about this?"

"I'd been wary about doing it in the first place, then about allowing the story to focus more on Aghani's on-going legal battle," he explained. "I guess it slipped my mind to mention it to you."

"Slipped your mind?" she asked, astounded. "Mark, how does a front-page feature slip your mind?"

"A… _what_?" He pushed himself to sit upright. Had he heard her correctly?

"Front-page feature," she repeated. "Above the fold, no less." The distinct rustling of paper sounded in his ear. "Oh! I just saw the by-line. Is that Pam and Colin's Bridget?"

"Yes." Confusion swirled through his head. "I had no idea it would be on the front page. I thought this was going to be buried in the centre somewhere, a small human interest story."

"I guess they thought it was worth a bit more than that. Oh, I'm horrified to read what your client's going through. _Horrified_. I'm contacting my MP as soon as I can, to demand they let him stay here. They simply cannot send him back to a certain death, end of story."

He ran his hand down over his face. If only a small portion of their readers acted on their righteous anger, then the government could count on hearing from a lot of angry people. "I'm glad you agree," he said. "This is what I've been fighting an uphill battle for. But I'm still so surprised. I never expected this. I almost didn't allow it to happen."

"That certainly would have been a foolish decision," she said. "Anyway. Congratulations."

"Thank you," he said, "though I'm not the one to congratulate. We can thank Ms Jones—Bridget—for insisting, and for writing such a great piece. I owe her a great deal of thanks."

Soon after he concluded the call from his mother, he rose and dressed to go out and pick up a copy of the paper for himself. His mobile started to buzz as he did. It was Eleanor Heaney. He had told them, naturally, about the story's publication, but the appearance of the front page must have taken them by surprise, too.

"So, front page," said Eleanor.

"I'm just as surprised as you are," he said.

"The press are outside my building," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, I don't think you need to apologise," she said, then she started to chuckle. "I don't know what to do with the fact that they're on our side. We're not used to it."

Mark began to chuckle, too. "Well. I'm glad to hear it."

His phone continued to ring all day; colleagues, other journalists, other friends. He couldn't mind too much, because the widespread affect that it could have was beginning to become clearer. As the day passed, he realised he had yet to call Bridget, herself. Using his call list, he rang her up. She answered after several rings.

"Hello, Bridget Jones," she said in answering.

"Hello," he said. "Mark Darcy here."

"Oh, hello," she said; her voice was a little frostier than he had been used to when she was working with him.

"I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done," he said. "When did you learn it would be on the front page?"

"They called and told me last night," she said. "They had a long debate about it but in the end decided that the exclusive nature of the interview deserved more attention. Honestly, I never even thought of the 'exclusive' angle." Her voice was warming again. "They were surprised that I'd changed the focus, but as the old saying goes for some things, it's better to ask forgiveness than ask permission. And this is a better story. Oh. No offense intended."

He smiled. "On this, I'd have to agree," he said. "My days, for the most part, just aren't terribly interesting."

"They are still going to run the 'day in the life story' in the middle of next week. I still have to polish and expand that a bit more and send it in by midnight Wednesday, to run next weekend. So even more publicity."

"That's great," he said. "This story so prominently placed promises more than ever to help their cause, and I wanted to thank you by taking you to dinner tonight."

"Oh," she said. "Thanks, but actually, I've got plans tonight already."

"Ah," he said. A prickling nagged the back of his mind. "Are you going to dinner with Daniel Cleaver?"

There was a long silence. "As a matter of fact, I am," she said defiantly, the chill back in her voice. "I need to get ready, actually. If I need anything for the story, I'll be in touch."

"All right," he said. "Thanks again."

"Thank you for letting me do it. Goodbye."

Mark put down the phone, torn. She was a grown woman and could make her own decisions. Still, he felt a responsibility to give her the information he had to help her make the best decision she could.

…

Bridget wasn't sure what it was that had annoyed her so much about Mark's call, or more specifically, Mark's question. What business was it of his if she decided to accept a date from her boss, one on whom she'd had a crush for months? Her story being on the front page had apparently nabbed his attention at long last, and when he rang her at home earlier that afternoon, she couldn't have been happier for it.

She hadn't been lying. She did have to get ready. He was going to be there for her within two hours, and she had a lot of date prep to do, had an outfit to find that would be forgiving of the holiday pounds she'd put on. She ended up deciding on a dark jewel blue dress with long sleeves, a low collar, and a hem that swept her knees. She twisted her hair up and held it into place with a decorated hair stick. She carefully applied liner and dark grey shadow, causing the blue of her eyes to seem lighter and brighter. To her lips she applied a pale pink lipstick. The overall effect she liked very much, indeed. With a spritz of her best perfume to each wrist, her preparation was complete.

To her relief, Daniel arrived slightly later than he'd predicted, which to her was a relief; arriving too early seemed almost pathological, and on time, only slightly less so.

"You look wonderful, Jones," he said, leaning to peck her cheek, lingering a little longer than he probably should have, but she certainly didn't mind. "Oh, and you smell wonderful, too." He drew back, drinking her in with his gaze alone. "Well, come on. Let's go. We'll be late for our reservation."

"Ooh. Where are we going?" she asked, as he helped her slip into her winter coat. She picked up her clutch purse.

"Ah, let me surprise you," he said, his smile a rakish one.

When they arrived, surprised she was: it was very posh, very high class, and, she had heard, very hard to get into. "Wow," she said as he checked their coats. "Nice."

"I thought after your triumph today that you deserved it," he said, leading her to the bar for a drink while they waited for their table. "Who knew we had such a writing talent under our own roof?"

She beamed with happiness, flush with pride in her work, and that he'd noticed her, an underling in Publicity. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," Daniel purred, pulling her close. Then, seeming to read her mind, he added, "You might think I hadn't noticed you, Jones, but I had. I had, indeed."

She turned to meet his gaze, and her heart fluttered with the promise she saw there.

Drinks in hand, they were shortly after led to their table: ambient lighting, private corner, flickering candles on the table. He pulled her chair out, then pushed it in for her once seated.

"Starter to go with the drink?" he asked, perusing the menu.

"Oh, yes, please," she said.

He ordered a bruschetta plate for them, pasta dishes for supper ("Surprise me," said Bridget) and while they waited he brought up the topic of her article again. "So how did that article come to be, anyway?" he asked, reaching for her hand. "And why the name of arse were you telling Perpetua you had a gynaecological problem?"

She had forgotten all about that, and she felt her skin flood with her embarrassment. "Because I could not pass up the opportunity to torture the nosiest woman in the world," she admitted sheepishly. "Hadn't thought she might actually tell people about it."

Daniel laughed, and it was clearly with her, not at her. "Oh, Jones. You're priceless." He stroked his thumb along her knuckles. "So. The story."

"My friend suggested I pitch it as part of the series in _The Independent_ , and suggested I do it with another barrister that works with him in chambers," she explained. She remembered again Mark Darcy's warning. "Do you know him? Mark Darcy, I mean?"

"I did, yeah," he said. "How did you get on with him?"

"He was a bit cold and bossy," she said. She was going to continue on how that demeanour had changed once the misapprehension had been cleared up but Daniel began to talk again.

"That sounds about right," he said. "Selfish, cold, controlling."

"Did you know him well?"

"We were friends once," he said. "And then we had a falling out. I don't want to talk about him anymore, though." He released her hand as the bruschetta arrived.

"You can tell me," she said, suddenly curious. "It's not like I'm ever likely to see him again."

He seemed to think about it. "All right," he said. "But you must never tell a soul."

This was exceedingly intriguing. "Who am I going to tell?" she said, bending the truth a bit.

"You're a journalist now," he said, smiling a bit.

"Strictly off the record," she said. "Cross my heart."

"All right," he said. "He slept with my fiancée two weeks before our wedding."

She could barely believe what she'd heard. "He _what_?" she asked. It seemed so unlike anything she knew of him—but, she realised, she didn't actually know him that well at all.

"You see why I don't like to talk about it," he said. "Let's talk about you, instead. Will you be leaving the hallowed halls of Pemberley Press for greener pastures?"

"That is a mangled metaphor if every I heard one," she said with a laugh, plucking up one of the bruschetta slices and examining it to take a bite. "I would love to continue to do this on the side. At least for now."

"No small feat for a first-time writer to get a front page story," he said. "It doesn't hurt that you can actually write. I wager they'll use you again."

"No offense," she said, winking, "but I hope they do."

They enjoyed the bruschetta and then the pasta when it arrived; he'd picked her favourite, spaghetti _alla_ Bolognese, like he'd known it was her favourite all along. It was probably the best she'd ever had, and she savoured every bite. He had also ordered a bottle of wine, and poured one for her and then one for himself, inching closer to do so. When he was done, his hand drifted down to rest on her knee; his thumb traced arcs on the sensitive skin there. With his other hand he lifted his wineglass as if to toast.

"To the start of something good," he said. "Whether we continue to be colleagues or not."

She lifted her glass and touched it to his, smiling, then sipping. _Hear, hear_ , she thought.

With her gaze locked to his, he squeezed her knee, then slid his fingers up her thigh a little bit higher.

The hand on her knee, the light touch there, the intensity of his gaze… she had wanted his attention for so long. Why did she feel so unsettled, then? Too much, too soon?

She looked away to her nearly empty plate.

"Dessert?" he asked, drawing his hand away, sitting up straighter.

She met his eyes again; he was smiling warmly.

"I know you like chocolate," he said. "I've seen your desk."

She chuckled. "All right," she said. Then she blurted out, "I'm not going to sleep with you on the first date, you know." Instantly she was mortified; she blamed the wine.

He looked at her with slightly wide eyes, then blinked. "Well. Duly noted," he said, then laughed.

They had a chocolate mousse dessert before they left the restaurant. When they reached the car, he turned to her, taking her hands in his. "Do you still want me to take you home?" he asked.

She nodded.

He released her hands, then slipped his own around her waist under her unbuttoned coat, and pulled her close, taking her by surprise with a kiss. And what a kiss it was. She fell headlong into it, bringing her arms up and around his neck as she kissed him back.

When she broke away at last, eyelids fluttering opened to meet his sparkling gaze. "Are you sure?" he asked throatily.

There was a moment, a very long moment, when she nearly cracked and capitulated, but a cold breeze along her neck brought her back to reality. Regardless of how long she'd fancied him, it was definitely too soon. "I'm not sure," she said, "but I really shouldn't."

He blinked a few more times, then offered a tender smile. "It's all right," he said. "I like a bit of a challenge, anyway." He released her from his embrace, then he opened the passenger-side door for her. "Your carriage awaits."

She smiled in return, then took a seat. He closed the door for her.

The ride was spent in relative silence, not an uncomfortable one, but crackling with anticipation. When they arrived in front of her building, he got out to get the door for her again, then helped her to her feet, walking her to her front stoop. "Wonderful evening, Jones," he said. "See you in the morning."

It took her a moment to realise that she meant at work. "See you then."

He leaned over, placed his hand on her cheek, then gave her a goodbye kiss. "Good night."

She stood there in a sort of stupid silence until she realised she needed to dig her key out of her clutch, and let herself in. "Good night."

She was back in her flat with no real awareness of bringing herself there, but at least she was alone; she hadn't lost her mind by changing it. _Close call_ , she thought. He was extremely charming, and she had nearly succumbed to him. With some amusement, she thought, _Maybe that's what Mark had been referring to._

She slipped out of her shoes then passed by her netbook, which she had left open, and noticed that she had a new message. She drew her brows together. It was from Mark Darcy. Curious, she sat down before even slipping out of her dress, and clicked the message to open and read it.

…

By pure chance, Mark was not in the mood for French food that Sunday evening, and decided to alternate restaurants for his dinner. Whether it was subconscious or not, he'd chosen one that happened to be a favourite of his former friend. Happened to see him there with Bridget Jones, though he was thankful not to have been seen by either.

He couldn't help but notice them—couldn't help but watch as Daniel encroached upon her personal space, placed his hand on her knee, and generally acted like the vulture that Mark had come to think of Daniel to be. He thought again of the car-crash analogy, felt more hopeless than ever to stop it. He took in a deep breath. He wished he could do something. Anything.

On his way home from dinner, he pondered it more and more, and by the time he'd gotten home, he had come to a decision. He _did_ have the power to stop it, or at least to minimise the damage. It meant a slight hit to his pride, but it would be worth it. If he could help her, he should. He owed it to her after what her story was probably going to do for his clients.

He gave what he wanted to say some thought, and then sat down and wrote the email.

 _Bridget,_

 _Allow me to further expand upon my previous comments about Daniel Cleaver. Seeing his name took me by rather by surprise, and I'm afraid I could have been more articulate at the time, but that man tends to have a detrimental effect on my temper._

 _As you might have guessed, I do know Mr Cleaver. We were friends for a very long time. Our friendship ended, however, when I caught him in bed with my wife a fortnight after our wedding. Needless to day, more than one relationship ended that night._

 _As painful as this is for me to recount, if I can save you from a similar pain, it will have been worth it. I hope even now that it is not too late._

 _Regards,_

 _Mark_

He reread it, then pressed Send before he lost his nerve. He then closed his laptop and got ready for bed.

…

Bridget could only sit and stare at the email, reading it a second time, and then a third. The similarity to the story that Daniel had told her could not be discounted, but had Mark based what he'd written in the email on what he had done to Daniel, or had Daniel based what he'd told her on what he had done to Mark?

It was all very confusing. She closed the computer, and as she got ready for bed, she weighed what she knew about both men. Daniel was constantly getting calls from women (as per Perpetua's complaints), while Mark's mum was apparently so concerned about her son's loneliness that she was trying to set him up with a strange woman at the Turkey Curry Buffet. Daniel had the warmth and charm of a serial seducer with the moves to prove it, while Mark was cool and taciturn and the greatest example of the opposite of a playboy that she could conceive.

No, she had no choice but to conclude that Daniel had lied to her, probably to get her into bed. She shivered with the knowledge that she had made a narrow escape from being another proverbial notch on his bedpost.

Should she reply? What should she say? What _could_ she say? She brushed out her hair, cleaned her teeth, and washed off her makeup. She decided by the time she was done that he did deserve a reply, because she was actually quite grateful.

Once she had her pyjamas on, she went back to the netbook and opened it again, composing a reply.

 _Mark,_

 _Thank you for telling me this. I appreciate your honesty. I know how hard it must have been to share it. Needless to say, your warning from the other night makes total sense now. (And you'll be glad to know that your email did not come too late at all.) So I'm sorry for acting like a total ice queen towards you._

 _Thanks again,_

 _Bridget_

After sending it, she sighed. Work was going to be as awkward as arse for her. How was she ever going to turn Daniel down for a second date? There was no way she could continue to go out with him. She might have still fancied him, but she couldn't trust him. Certainly she didn't fancy him nearly as much without that trust.

Accordingly, she had a hard time falling to sleep. As it turned out, however, she needn't have worried; she had been so obsessed on what she was going to say to Daniel that she had completely forgotten about her front page article having been published in a major newspaper just the day before. She was met with stunned yet admiring looks when she appeared. Perpetua was the first to approach her, and she was joined shortly after by others.

"Well, Bridget," she said, smiling almost proudly. "Never knew you had it in you!"

"Thanks," Bridget said, adding in thought only, _I think_.

"Really wonderful piece," said Simon from Marketing.

The cherry on the top of her morning turned out to be from Mr Fitzherbert. "Brenda," he said, coming straight to her desk, "or should I saw Bridget. Excellent work. You've done us all proud."

Daniel did not turn up until after lunch, which she found odd. When he did come in, he looked a bit rough, but he had a smile for her. "I was going to come sooner," he said, sitting on the edge of her desk, "in time to take you to lunch, but I got delayed in traffic."

"That's quite the delay," she said, looking back to her screen.

He was quiet, clearly expecting more from her, then spoke again when it was clear she wasn't going to. "Hey. Jones." His voice was much more subdued. "What's going on?"

"His wife," she said quietly. "Not your fiancée." Then she looked up to him again. "I'll pass on that second date, then."

She had never seen him look quite so speechless before. Indeed, he said nothing more, simply rose from where he was and made his way back to his office. She suspected he would plead his case after he'd taken the time to come up with an adequate explanation. She found that she did not care. There was no explanation—excuse—he could give to undo the lie. She hoped that handling it the way she had, he hadn't been embarrassed, which would allow him to save face. Not that she cared much about not embarrassing him; she might have let him have it if she had another job lined up. She couldn't afford to be sacked.

She put these thoughts behind her and logged on to her work computer; when Perpetua was obviously engaged in deep conversation with one of her posh friends, she opened a browser window and snuck open her personal email. To her delight, it was flooded with even more congratulatory messages from her friends, and she beamed.

Tuesday, 12 Jan

As Monday passed into Tuesday, Mark began to see the ripple effect of the story. Other journalists began to run more positive stories on the pair. He even heard chatter in the halls at the Royal Courts of Justice. He was starting to have greater faith that the tide could be turned, that it was in actual fact turning. He couldn't have been happier and prouder, though he was careful not to show it in an obvious way. When he spoke to Kafir Aghani and Eleanor Heaney, they too expressed their delight at the repercussions of the article, even if not all reactions had been positive.

"But we expected that," Eleanor concluded. "And what we _have_ gotten is mild. No death threats or rocks through the window, which I'll chalk up as a win."

When his phone rang again late Tuesday afternoon, he picked it up thinking it would again be Eleanor. "Mark Darcy."

"Hi," said a female voice; it took him a moment to place that it was Bridget Jones. "Did you have a few minutes this afternoon?"

He sat up straighter, reaching for his desk calendar. "Yes, I do," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping I might come down for a photo for tomorrow's story."

"Oh," he said, subconsciously running his hand back over his hair. "Sure. That's fine. You can come directly to my office."

"Oh, okay. Great. See you shortly."

When the call disconnected he went to the men's room to check to make sure that he didn't have a speck of something stuck in his teeth, or that his hair wasn't standing on end. Satisfied, he returned to his office to await her return.

Within thirty minutes he heard a rap on the door, and he called, "Come in."

The door swung inward, and within a moment Bridget's head peeked in. "Hi."

He beckoned her forward with a gesture, offering a smile. Behind her, to his surprise, was a young man bearing a rather impressive photographer's kit. "I thought I'd just take a picture with my phone, but _The Independent_ thought to send along one of their photographers. Mark Darcy, this is Andy Riley. Andy, this is Mark Darcy."

Andy, a rangy young ginger lad with a broad smile, stepped forward with his hand extended. When he spoke he reaffirmed his Irish heritage. "Pleasure to meet you, sir," Andy said. "Great work you're doing."

"Thank you," he said.

Andy turned towards the window, regarding it for several minutes. "Oh, that'd work nicely," he said. "By the window there, with the bright winter light and your law books."

Mark went where Andy suggested, then looked down, smoothing down the lapels, adjusting his tie, then glancing back to them. "All right," he said.

Bridget, to his surprise, was stifling a laugh before bursting forth with a giggle. For a moment she wondered what about his appearance he had missed, but then she asked, "What in the _world_ is that?"

He turned to see to what she was pointing. "It's my barrister wig," he said. "It's been there all along. What's so funny about it?"

"No, no, the tiny one!"

Maybe she hadn't noticed the miniature wig before because it had been very cloudy outside, and today's sunshine illuminated it. He firmed his jaw and looked at Andy. "Take the photo, please."

Still giggling, she said, "You'll look right and properly serious with that scowl."

At this he glared at her, which made her giggle all over again; as she did, he realised that Andy was snapping away, and he composed his features to better suit a posed picture.

"How about trying a pose without your jacket buttoned?" she asked. "I mean, you know, so it doesn't look so formal."

He nodded and undid his suit jacket buttons; he reminded himself, after all, that he had been assigned this task to warm up his public image. Bridget must have decided he still looked a bit too serious, though, because she began pulling faces from her place beside Andy. He tried not to smile too broadly or laugh, but couldn't help himself, and a chuckle escaped him.

Andy, with his camera held up high, continued snapping away, then, as suddenly as he'd begun, he stopped then lowered it again. "All right," Andy said. "Got what I think will be some great shots. Thank you for being available on such short notice. My bosses will be very grateful."

"Yes, thank you."

"I was happy to do it," he said. He then turned to Bridget. "You know, we don't have a picture for your by-line. Why don't I get one of you?"

Andy might as well have told her he wanted her to pose nude with a strategically placed python wrapped around her. "Oh my God. I look a fright, I must," she said. "Can I at least visit the loo to make sure I don't have mascara flaking down my cheeks?"

"You look great, fresh as a daisy," said Andy.

"No, no, give me just a few minutes," she said, then dashed out.

Mark caught Andy start to chuckle. Mark looked at him enquiringly, so Andy explained quietly, "I've been around her enough to know that a few minutes translates to more like twenty."

Mark admitted the man was right, and chuckled, too.

Patiently they waited, but in actual fact she was only gone for about five minutes before returning with a fresh layer of face powder, lip gloss, and hair she'd clearly brushed down around her shoulders. "That's better. OK. Should I just stand here?"

She had a wall panelled with warm brown oak, fully illuminated by the winter sun, her eyes seemingly brighter blue than ever. "Yes, perfect."

He watched as she posed, a reluctant smile on her face, which broadened as Andy told her not to look like she was going to a funeral. Soon enough, Andy stopped. "All right, now I've _really_ got what I need," Andy said, then walked over to begin stowing his equipment into its bag. "Thanks again." He glanced to Bridget. "Ready to head out?"

"Why don't you go ahead," Bridget said. "I had a couple of things to talk about with Mr Darcy."

"Sure," he said. "I'll let you know tonight which one they use and send you a copy, too." He glanced to Mark. "Shall I send it to you, too?"

"I'd appreciate that," he said. He reached for his desk for a business card, and gave it to Andy. "Thank you."

"Cheers," he said, and after tucking the card into the front pocket his bag, he headed out.

"Do you want to read what I send in before I send it?" Bridget asked.

He thought about how little he'd had to offer on the previous story. He didn't need to think about his answer long. "Surprise me," he said. "Just be sure to run spellcheck and a grammar scan."

She grinned. "All right."

"Did you have any other questions for me?" he prompted.

"Oh, not that I can think of right now…"

"Not that I'm trying to hasten your departure, but I do have some end-of-day tasks…"

"I understand," she said with an easy smile. "Can I ping you later if I need to?"

"Absolutely."

They stood there, silent, for a few moments, before she extended her hand towards him as if to shake. "It's been nice working with you," she began. He accepted the handshake. "Granted, it didn't start out so well, but it really has been illuminating."

"It has been, indeed," he said. "Goodbye."

With that she closed the door behind her, and he was left to take care of the loose ends of the day.

…

It took Bridget about three hours to finish, revise, and then (with a chuckle) run the spelling and grammar check. Proudly she emailed the draft off, sat back, and then raised her wineglass to her lips for a long sip of Chardonnay. _Reward for a job well done_ , she thought, then picked up another slice of pizza and took a big bite.

She had finished both wine and pizza and was deep into a show on the television when she heard her email program chime from the table where she'd left her netbook open. She glanced over then rose out of curiosity to see what it was.

She found two messages had arrived: one acknowledging receipt of the story, and one from Andy, with the subject, "Final choice for photo."

Curious, she clicked on the email and was surprised by the top of a very large photo, the window and the top, brows and up, of Mark Darcy's head. Above the embedded photo was Andy's text: _Unanimous decision, pretty much, on this one. He looks very approachable.—A._

She continued scrolling down, until she saw the whole thing, or most of it. She could hardly reconcile the smiling, warm, and yes, approachable man in the shot with the stodgy, cold, unfriendly one she had met just a little over a week ago. Combined with the location and the sunlight… Andy had a good eye for contrast and composition. It would sure be eye-catching in the newspaper. She hadn't seen the others from the impromptu session that day, obviously, but this was a great photo.

Mostly she couldn't quite get over how nice his smile was, how handsome it made him look. She had somehow not seen the unguarded smile at the time it had happened—perhaps there and gone in the blink of an eye while she was busy pulling faces—but Andy's camera had captured it.

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. As much as she hated to admit it, it was possible her mother might have been on to something.

Wednesday, 14 Jan

She had a little bit of trouble sleeping that night, and wasn't sure why; this wasn't going to be nearly as big a deal as the one the previous week. Or so she thought. Upon waking, upon running down to buy a copy for herself, her story was featured fairly prominently with a mention over the masthead, her own photo beside it.

She could hardly believe it.

Returning to her flat, she checked the email again. As it turned out, Andy had also mailed her own photo to her, but she hadn't noticed it the night before. She began to get ready for work; in the middle of applying some mascara, her mobile began to go off, startling her, causing her to brush a smudge of black across her cheek. "Dammit," she said, then said into the phone, "Hello?"

"Phwoooooar!"

It was Shazzer, who continued after taking a long drag on her cigarette:

"Was he a good shag? Eh? Ehh?"

She rolled her eyes, and leaned against the sink. "Shazzer," she said. "It was all purely professional."

"How did you not, like, climb over the desk and snog him senseless?!"

She bit down on her lower lip, trying to debate whether to tell Shazzer what he'd first thought of her, then thought _Fuck it_. "He was awful to me for the first two days I was there with him," she said. "He thought I'd got the job through Jeremy because I was sleeping with him."

"Oh, _ugh_." Shazzer then made vomiting sounds, which made Bridget laugh. "I hope you bollocked him for that," she said.

"He was appropriately humbled and apologetic after Jeremy set him straight," she said. "And started acting much nicer to me. Brought me a cappuccino and everything."

"I don't know, Bridge," she said teasingly. "It could be love."

"Shut up," she said. "Look, I have to get ready for work."

"When you do him," Shazzer teased, "let me know how good it was, all right?"

"You're disgusting," said Bridget with a little laugh. "Talk to you later."

She put down the phone, and looked at herself in the mirror, one side lushly lashed with a streak of black beneath, one side not. _Time to slog on_ , she thought, and cleared off her cheek with a little soap and water before finishing her mascara.

This story seemed to garner almost as much attention as her first, and she heard many congratulations that day. More than once, she heard, "Twice in a week—lucky you!" She didn't feel that luck had much to do with it, though; maybe a bit lucky that Jeremy had had the idea to pitch the story, but it had been hard work to write it and polish it up to say exactly as she'd wanted it to say.

More than once she had the photo from the article dropped on the desk in front of her. "So this is the barrister you spent three days with?" asked Perpetua. "Complicated gynaecological problems, indeed." But she'd winked, and Bridget came over with a deep flush. She hadn't seen Daniel at all that Wednesday, except through his office windows. He studiously avoided her, avoided even looking at her. She had done nothing to encourage this in him, but did not go out of her way to make friendly overtures. He had made his bed, so to speak.

And then her mother called her.

"Bridget!" she shrieked, loudly enough to cause her nearby colleagues to turn in her direction. "You spent three days with Mark Darcy, darling, and you didn't tell me? I had to hear it from Elaine Darcy!"

"Mother," she scolded. "It was purely professional."

"Did he ask you to dinner? Oh, I knew you would—"

" _Mother_ ," she said again. "I just said it—"

"I know what you said," she countered. "And I know what Elaine Darcy told me."

Suspicious of a trap, she asked anyway, "What did Elaine Darcy tell you?"

"That sparks just flew," she said, "and that he likes you, despite an off start, and that you're a bit bizarre…"

" _Bizarre_?" Bridget asked.

"I didn't ask," said Pam.

"Mum," Bridget said patiently. "I suspect Elaine's putting it up a little. We're barely friends. We're friendly now. That's it."

Pam made a clucking sound. "Mark never talks about girls—"

" _Women_ , Mother," Bridget corrected.

"—and Elaine said he couldn't stop talking about you," she barrelled on. "You can't tell me that's not interest."

Bridget was suspicious about taking it at face value, but did wonder if there was some seed of truth there. "Mum, I've got to go," she said. "Bye."

"Let me know how it goes, darling! Why, just the other day—"

"Bye," she said again forcefully, and then put down the receiver. She sighed heavily. The two of them, her mother and his, contriving and conspiring to match-make. If she had to guess, Una Alconbury was probably in on it, too; she could picture the three of them as if they were Macbeth's witches.

The kudos, however, continued to be wonderful to receive, and she accepted them gratefully. She wondered how Mark had liked how it had come out, though; he was the one person he had not heard from.

Until she got home.

There on the table, just inside the front door in her building, was a tasteful bouquet of big, bright, beautiful gerbera daisies. The card addressed to her. It read:

 _Your piece today in_ _The Independent_ _was so excellent, I bought the paper for the second time in my life. In all seriousness, thank you for the marvellous work. We're seeing positive results from your Sunday feature already._

 _Mark_

She puffed up proudly, beaming a smile to no one. She still ate dinner alone, though.

Monday, 18 Jan

Mark put down the phone, still shocked at the news he'd just gotten. What months of court appearances had failed to produce, public pressure apparently had done after only about a week since the story's appearance. He had just been notified that there would be a final court hearing for extradition in two weeks, not in the autumn, as originally scheduled.

He immediately picked up the phone again, and called Eleanor and Kafir to tell them.

"What does that mean?" said Eleanor, sounding slightly panicked. "Is this good or bad?"

"I suspect good," he said. "That they would rather push it way up rather than leave it to autumn when the headline has faded from memory tells me that they are getting a lot of pressure to act to keep Kafir here."

There was a charged silence before she spoke again. "You're right. That _is_ good." Then her voice went a little sombre again: "Will we be ready in two weeks' time?"

"Absolutely," he said.

There had been other benefits to the additional exposure from more than just the big story on Kafir's plight. On the day that his 'day in the life' story appeared, he'd had two enquiries for potential clients, and two more between Thursday and Friday. He'd also had a phone call from _Tatler_ for a comment for an 'eligible bachelor' list they were preparing for an upcoming issue. He said "No comment" in lieu of saying something vulgar.

His mother had been happy and proud about the Sunday feature, but had seemed irrationally overjoyed at the appearance of the second article. "I'm so pleased to hear you got along so well," she had enthused. "I mean, enough to do not one story, but _two_!"

"Yes, we did get along rather well," he'd said, skirting over the initial misapprehension involving Jeremy. "Her technique in putting together the story was a bit bizarre compared to other journalists I've encountered, but… she did a splendid job."

"And she's pretty."

"Yes," he'd said, thinking of the smiling photograph at the top of the paper. "Very pretty."

"So do you think you'll see her again?"

He'd sighed, rolling his eyes. He should have guessed that this is where she'd be leading. "I suppose it's a possibility."

"Mark," she'd said. "Make it more than just a possibility. You liked her, didn't you?"

He'd thought for a few minutes, and realised that in fact he did like her, and forming a friendship was another bonus to come out of these pieces. "Sure," he said. "I'm pleased to have made the acquaintance."

"Oh, Mark, you are really too much."

He'd thought about this conversation a lot since they'd had it. Of course he'd thought she was attractive—he would have had to have been totally oblivious not to notice—but he routinely spent time around attractive women. The more he considered it, though, he realised Bridget was a different kind of attractive. In his social circle, there was a coolness to the women he knew; even in situations outside of the workplace, that icy veneer always remained. With Bridget, however… even her professional persona was warm and friendly. Maybe that was the difference he perceived.

He had grown to like her. It didn't have to mean anything more than that.

…

Work at the publishing company had seemed so boring since concluding the assignment with _The Independent_ covering a day in Mark Darcy's life and all that it entailed, including his clients. The first day of the work week had been an absolute drag, and she was more than pleased to get out of there and home to dinner and to life as a sloth on the sofa with dinner and the telly.

As she munched away on the curry takeaway she'd picked up on the way home her mobile began to go off. She leaned over and palmed it. She didn't recognise the number, so she answered it by saying, "Bridget Jones."

"Hey, sorry to bother you so late," said the vaguely familiar voice; Bridget glanced to the clock to see it was barely nine in the evening. "It's Michael from _The Independent_. Do you have a moment?"

She sat up straight to reach for her telly remote to mute it. "Of course," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"We've heard from a contact in the Royal Courts," he said, "that the Aghani hearing has been brought rescheduled sooner than the autumn. Much sooner. Two weeks from now. Have you heard anything about this?"

"I haven't," she said. "You don't want me to go and ask Mr Darcy, do you?"

"No, no, that's fine," he said with a chuckle. "We wondered if you might be available to go and cover the hearing."

She thought she might have misheard. "Pardon?" she asked. "You want _me_ to do it?"

"Well, you've already established a rapport with Mr Darcy," Michael said, "not to mention that you can actually write and… well, aside from that other Mr Darcy interview… you can meet our deadlines."

 _Through sheer force of will alone_ , she thought. "I'll…" she began. "Yes, I'll do it." She'd work out the details later. She'd fake another appointment if she had to.

"Wonderful. When we confirm the date and time, we'll let you know."

She thanked him, then disconnected the call. The whoop she let out echoed throughout her flat, and she couldn't get the grin off of her face for the rest of the week.


	3. Chapter 3: Endings and Beginnings

**A Day in the Life**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 33,624  
Rating: M / R (For Chapter 3)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

There are some, shall we say, tactical edits to keep the M/R rating a little less questionable. The version that appears on AO3 is unedited.

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Endings and Beginnings**

 **Monday, 1 Feb**

Bridget didn't know what she was more nervous about: showing up in court to do the story on the hearing, or in how Mark would react upon seeing her there to cover it. She wasn't sure how she'd take it if her presence there made him angry. She'd actually come clean with Perpetua about why she needed the day off, and Perpetua had been surprisingly all right with it. "Given the choice of being here or being with that handsome barrister," she'd said, "I know what _I'd_ rather be doing."

She smiled and thanked her, trying hard not to allow her mind to take a dirty turn, and failing. Because that was becoming a concern, too. She had felt herself thinking about him quite frequently since she'd seen him last. His kind demeanour. His faultless courtesy. His obvious intelligence. The smile in that photo certainly hadn't hurt, either.

She dressed in the new outfit she'd gone to buy the day before, a dark heather grey suit jacket and pencil skirt, and a blue blouse. In it, she looked the part of top-notch political reporter, even if she felt a little like a fraud. As she stood in front of her mirror, she pinned her hair up, then stood back to admire her work. "You can do this," she told herself. "You _have_ done this."

Packing her messenger bag with her netbook (and a pad of paper and pen in case they decided not to allow computers during the proceedings), she slipped into her coat, wrapped a muffler around her neck, and grabbed her handbag (double-checking that her driving license hadn't gone skittering off when she wasn't looking). With a deep, reassuring breath, she left her flat.

Fortunately for her, the weather was mild, and traffic slightly lighter than had become the usual in London. She arrived earlier than she expected, and after passing through—as press! So exciting!—and into the complex, she realised she had a bit of extra time beforehand to grab a coffee.

She had just paid for the drink and was waiting for the drink when she heard her name. She turned and saw, of all people, Eleanor Heaney. Bridget smiled then waved her over.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Eleanor said; it made Bridget happy that she seemed so pleased to see her. Spotting the press pass, she asked, "Oh, you're working?"

"Not at the moment," she said. "Can I buy you a coffee?"

"Better not," she said. "I'm nervous enough as it is."

"It is a big day," said Bridget.

"I'd rather have had two weeks of suspense than months and months," Eleanor said. "Oh, I can never thank you enough. One way or another, it'll be over once and for all today."

Bridget looked around. "Where's Kafir?"

"He's with Mr Darcy prepping in a conference room," Eleanor said. "Kafir will probably have to speak. Testify."

Bridget lowered her voice. "Does Mr Darcy… does he have a sense of how it might go?"

"He seems confident that the law's on his side, just from things he's said," she said. "But he never gets cocky, tries not to make assumptions, so I don't know for certain."

"That's probably a good thing," said Bridget.

"It's _definitely_ a good thing," Eleanor said. She reached for and grasped Bridget's free hand. "Will you sit with us? Please?"

"If Mr Darcy says it's all right…"

"Oh, of course. But I'm sure it'll be okay." Eleanor seemed to further relax. "I feel so much better already."

"Ms Jones. Good morning."

They turned and saw Mark and Kafir approaching together; Mark, wearing what she presumed was court robes, which he had not worn for the previous hearing. He actually cut a dashing figure in it. She wondered idly where the white wig was.

Following his lead, she said, offering a small smile, "Mr Darcy, hello."

Mark glanced down—to her press pass, she realised belatedly—then up again. "Ah," he said; the pass was the answer to a question he'd clearly been about to ask. "You'll want to sit in the designated press area."

She nodded, glancing to Eleanor, who looked a little disappointed. "I'll just be right there, then," she said. "I mean, when we're allowed in there."

"As a matter of fact, that's now," Mark said, glancing to his watch. "I'll show you where the press area is. Oh. No recording."

"Right," she said, not admitting that making a recording hadn't actually occurred to her.

Her seat in the designated press area wasn't too far from where Kafir and his defence team sat; in fact, she had an unobstructed view of the back of Mark's now-wigged head when he was seated. Once the hearing started, though, he didn't sit much. Furiously she took notes on her notepad (she had forgotten to charge her netbook's battery) as he spoke passionately and at great length; she hoped against hope that she would be able to read her own writing later. She thought the prosecuting team looked a bit overwhelmed, particularly when Mark interjected to correct them on a point of law, and the judge paused to confirm.

It was all very, very thrilling; Mark's presentation, the testimony of Eleanor and of Kafir, with both barristers firing pointed questions and objections… and she'd been fortunate enough to be right in the middle of it all, covering everything for the paper.

At the end of it all, it was clear that they had all expected for the judge to bring the session to an end for the day and to render a decision the next… but she didn't.

"I'll ask you to refrain from packing up your briefcases just yet, gentlemen," said Judge Reilly drolly, her steely eyes shifting between the two barristers, who froze in place with what they were doing. She steepled her fingers before her, and any trace of lightness was gone from her voice when she spoke again. "I'm not going to need any additional time for my ruling. I've heard all I need to hear," she said. "I think the law is clear. If I'm honest, I'm not sure why on earth this has gone on as long as it has."

Judge Reilly then looked directly towards Bridget; well, towards Mark. "I find that Mr Aghani has every legal right to remain in the UK, and the extradition request is based on a foundation of smoke." She glanced towards the Crown's representative. "The motion is denied. There will be no extradition."

It was all she could do not whoop out with utter joy, even as she strove to get the judge's words verbatim on her notepad.

"This hearing is adjourned," continued the judge. "Mr Aghani, you are free to resume your pursuit of citizenship within the United Kingdom, without prejudice."

Bridget held her composure—they all did—until the judge stepped down from the bench and retreated. Only then did someone begin to spontaneously applaud… and then everyone else did. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eleanor pop up from her chair and run to Kafir, then embrace him just as he wrapped his own arms around her, clinging to her tightly. She was sobbing uncontrollably, and it was clear that she did not care who was watching. Her gratitude and relief was palpable. So was his. No one could see it and not be moved.

With a sniff, Bridget tucked the notepad into her messenger bag, wondering if it was all right to go and congratulate them… but everyone was milling about freely, so she saw nothing wrong in going down there, too.

A bailiff tried to keep her from going to them—she supposed he thought she was trying to get a quote for her story—but as she was about to turn away and leave, she heard Mark's voice command, "It's all right. Let her through."

Smiling, she stepped down the last three steps and went straight up to him. He had doffed the wig once more. "I'm so, _so_ pleased about today," she said.

"All thanks to you."

She made a dismissive sound. "I wasn't the one making that brilliant legal argument," she said, then joked, "at least, I assume it was brilliant. I only understood about every third word. And the wig, you know, not nearly as silly as I would have expected."

He smiled too, then laughed a little. Impulsively, she reached up to hug him in congratulations. _Possibly too much_ , she thought even as she did it, but the decision was an outcome they had all wanted so badly for so long, and thought he could use the pat on the back, both literal and figurative. "Congratulations, and well done," she said.

His arms came up to return the hug, all-encompassing and warm across her back and around her waist; her cheek pressed against the pocket of his suit jacket, the light, clean tang of his cologne playing in her senses alongside the more indefinable, unique, yet not-unpleasant scent of him as he'd maintained grace under pressure.

The funny thing was that she should have pulled back after just a second or two. Or he should have. But neither of them did.

…

Mark had been pleasantly surprised to see Bridget turn up at the courtroom; he had felt deflated for just a moment upon seeing her pass, but quickly realised she really was there for more than just work. She had been absolutely ready to sit with them before learning she had to sit in the press area, according to Eleanor.

Of course, at the time, he hadn't given it too much thought. He'd had a job to do and no second chance to do it. Not until he'd heard the words from the judge did he allow himself to relax even a little, and had just done so when he'd turned to see the bailiff trying to keep her away, so he'd invited her to join them.

And then she was putting her arms around him to hug him; he could not help but hug her in return. Her embrace felt so good, so welcoming, and bolstered the relief he felt; it reassured him that this long journey was truly at an end. He was reluctant to let her go, as strange as it sounded. The feel of her against him was precisely what he needed at that moment, though he couldn't have explained why, had he been asked.

It was she who pulled away from him, and rapidly at that; he realised quickly that it was because his opponent in the hearing today, a grizzled old veteran Queen's Counsel by the name of Edmund Oswald, stood there looking ridiculous in his wig and court garb. He wore a neutral look upon his face and he held his hand outstretched. He'd obviously just spoken and Mark hadn't heard it. "Well done, young man."

Surprised, he accepted the handshake. "Thank you."

Only then did the man's mouth crack with the hint of a smile. "I thought Judge Reilly would have made things harder for you, not easier," he said. "But, well, you've earned your reputation with good reason, didn't you?" He chuckled. "Well. Until the next time we meet, Mr Darcy."

Mark nodded, and watched Oswald go. During that exchange, Kafir and Eleanor had joined him by his side, both smiling, standing hand in hand, though Eleanor had a slightly quizzical expression as her gaze slid to Bridget.

"That's that, then," Mark said, then, with a grin, held out his hand; Kafir took it and surprised Mark by pulling him into a hug.

"Don't know how we'll ever thank you," Kafir said quietly.

"Live your life well," Mark replied, drawing away, only to be pulled into another by Eleanor.

"You _magnificent_ bastard," she said, laughing through a new round of streaming tears of happiness, "you did it. And you." She released Mark, and turned to Bridget. "Thank you for the story. I'm sure that made a huge difference." Then she hugged Bridget too; Bridget's smile was equally beatific.

"I'm so glad, really," Bridget said.

"Please, Ms Jones… I mean Bridget. Please join us for our celebratory dinner, won't you?"

Kafir's voice surprised Mark; they had discussed having dinner together no matter the outcome, but for Kafir to spontaneous open their circle to her was very unlike him.

"Oh, that's _very_ kind of you," she said, looking to Kafir, Eleanor, and then Mark, "but I've got to go home, crank out this piece, and file it with _The Independent_. They want it by nine. Perhaps another time?"

"I think we'd all like that," said Mark.

The bailiff interrupted the conversation just then to let then know they had to vacate the room. Mark gathered up his things and altogether they left.

Bridget lowered her messenger bag from her shoulder as if she were about to drop it to the floor; Mark held out his hand in silent offer to take the bag, and she handed it to him. She then slipped into her coat. As she did, Mark said, "If you need any help with the notes you took, don't hesitate to contact me."

"If I can't read my own writing," she said, genuinely confused, "how will you?"

There was a beat where he struggled to make sense of what she said, then chuckled a little. "No, I mean if you need clarification on any of the notes you took. If you need me to, you know, explain what I said or why I said it."

"Oh," she said. Her face tinged pink with embarrassment. "Sorry."

"No, don't apologise," he said, still smiling. "I wasn't clear." He gave her the bag back. "Good luck with the writing."

"Thanks," she said. "Kind of wish I could hole up in your office again to work on it. No distractions there."

"Switch off your landline, put on some good music, and shut out the world," he said; why on earth was he going on about this? "Anyway. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she said, raising her hand to wave before she turned away.

…

The dinner to which Kafir had invited Bridget was actually at Mark's home in Holland Park. Regardless of how the decision had gone, Mark had anticipated that they would want privacy away from the press, and he was glad he had done so.

Since he had been so busy preparing for the hearing, he had arranged for his housekeeper to fix dinner, and so they enjoyed, in the privacy of Mark's dining room, great, steaming bowls of beef stew and thick slabs of warm buttered bread; Eleanor and he had also enjoyed a Guinness. Leaning back in his seat, Mark let out a long, protracted exhalation.

"I almost don't know what to do with myself, now that there isn't a portion of my brain thinking constantly about staying three steps ahead of every legal argument they might counter with," Mark said.

"Maybe a holiday," said Kafir, sipping the sparkling apple juice he had decided to have. "I'm going to set my mind to finishing whatever I need to do to finalise citizenship."

"That's not exactly my area," Mark said, "but let me know if I can help in any way. Even if it's just to act as another sponsor."

"Thank you, Mark," Kafir said.

"I'm going to try to return to aid work," said Eleanor, "though domestically, obviously."

"That's a great idea," Mark said.

"How about what you'll do after your holiday?" asked Eleanor, spooning up a large chunk of potato. "Presuming of course you actually take one."

"I've had enquiries from potential new clients," he said. "Which… I suddenly seem to have the time to potentially take them on."

Eleanor swallowed the spoonful she'd eaten, then offered a smile. "It was nice to see Bridget again," she said. " _The Independent_ were smart to hire her again."

"Oh, yes," said Kafir. "It just made sense all around for her to keep covering it."

"Yes," said Mark, stirring up his dinner then lifting his spoon with another heap of stew. "Very smart."

"You were always very skittish about the press," Eleanor said. "You were even skittish about her at first." It was obvious she meant Bridget. "Mind you, I'm exceedingly glad you changed your mind, but what on earth caused this change?"

"I guess…" he began, then trailed off. He didn't think it had been one single thing that had tipped the scales, but more of a combination of things slowly coming together. Finally he said, "Maybe because she's not actually a jaded, cutthroat career journalist out for a headline at any cost. She seems genuinely interested in helping."

"Hope she sticks with journalism," said Eleanor, "and I hope she never turns into that journalist."

 _Nor do I_ , thought Mark.

The two of them didn't stay too long after the meal concluded; they were tired, after all, due to the stress building up to the hearing, the lack of sleep and the worry. Mark didn't realise quite how wound up he had felt until the silence echoed around him.

By the time he slipped into his bed and switched off the light, Mark hadn't heard from Bridget; he had to admit that he felt a little disappointed. He'd thought for sure she might call to ask what some specific legal term had meant, or to clarify the nuance of an argument. Maybe, though, he'd just wanted to hear another person's voice. He'd just wanted to talk to someone.

He'd just wanted to talk to _her_ , he realised.

 **Tuesday, 2 Feb**

She had expected that her third story with _The Independent_ would be received very well. Not to blow her own horn, but she was very pleased with how well it had turned out, how vivid a picture she'd been able to paint while sticking to the facts of the day (and how reliable her memory had turned out to be, after all). What she hadn't expected was her mobile ringing out of the blue that afternoon with another surprising cold call offer, and not from _The Independent_ , either.

"This is the author of the Aghani-Heaney verdict piece?"

It was somehow a statement that was also a question. Bridget said, "It is. Who's this?"

"I'm calling for Richard Finch, right?" she singsonged with that same upward lilt. "From _Sit Up Britain_? He'd like to meet with you?"

She knew the programme from the telly, and her heart began to race. "About my piece?"

"He has a proposal, right?" she said. "Can you meet with him in the morning?"

For a moment she wondered how many gynaecological appointments could she fake… until she resolved to simply say to Perpetua that she needed to come in late and leave it at that. The woman would die of curiosity with so little information, anyway. "A proposal for what?"

"I'd rather not speak for him?" Patchouli said/asked. "Can you make it for a nine o'clock meeting?"

She was determined not to sound unsure. "Yes, that'd be great."

"Brilliant, yeah?" she asked, before relaying the office's address for the programme. "See you at nine?"

"See you at nine," Bridget confirmed.

She put down the phone then immediately poked around on her phone to find where she'd need to be in the morning. Not too far from where she was now, she found. "Perpetua," she said, not looking up. "I'll have to come in late tomorrow." When there was no response, she looked up to find Perpetua looking intently at her, a small smiled playing on her lips. Bridget knew then that Perpetua somehow knew.

"Fantastic job with covering the hearing," she said quietly. "Maybe it'll lead to bigger things."

After work, she went home long enough to change to go out to meet her friends for a celebratory drink or two. "Cannot get pissed," she told herself. "Have very important meeting in the morning." But a third prominent feature in with a major newspaper in just a few weeks… it was certainly something to celebrate.

"To Bridget," Tom toasted, holding a Bloody Mary aloft, "our journalistic star, present company excluded."

Shaz puckered up, kissing in his direction, then sipped at her own drink. "I'm _so_ fucking proud of you, Bridge," she said.

"Thank you," said Bridget, smiling smugly.

"Oooh, maybe we should ring up the object of your stories, Bridge," said Jude, "and invite him to join us for a drink."

"Oh, phwoarrr, _yes_!" echoed Shaz. "Go on, go on, _ring 'im up_."

"I'm _not_ going to ring him up," said Bridget, enjoying her mojito; for some odd reason, her skin flared with a blush.

"You are _no_ fun," said Tom with an exaggerated pout.

 **Wednesday, 3 Feb**

When Bridget awoke the next morning, she realised she must have had a little more to drink than she'd intended; her head pounded, made worse when she sat up. She groaned. Stupid, _stupid_ to have gone drinking.

Due to a transit delay she made it to the _Sit Up Britain_ office shortly after the appointed time, but when she walked in, the receptionist—presumably the woman, Patchouli, with whom she had spoken the day before—didn't even look up. When Bridget got closer, she realised Patchouli was looking down at a smartphone screen, her thumbs moving rapidly as she typed. Gently, Bridget cleared her throat; when that did not seem to make a difference, Bridget said, "Pardon me."

"Yeah?" said Patchouli, still not looking up.

"I have a meeting with Richard Finch."

"Right," she said, then, after a bit more typing, stopped then lowered her mobile. "He went for a coffee, right? He'll be right back?"

"Okay," said Bridget. "I'll just… wait here, then?" _Oh, God_ , she thought. _The singsong is catching._

Patchouli said nothing; she had gone back to messaging on her mobile. Bridget took the hint and sat on a sofa there in the reception area. She massaged her temples, wishing she had thought to pick up a coffee on the way, too.

The pounding in her head had just about stopped when a rotund man wearing a garish, outmoded suit of yellow ochre with a too-wide tie came in bearing a pair of covered coffee cups on a takeaway tray in his hand. Bridget rose to her feet as he approached, startling him a little. "Hello," she said. "You must be Mr Finch."

His face came over with recognition and obvious appreciation. "Miss Jones," said Richard Finch, transferring the tray from his right hand to his left to offer it for a shake. "Come, join me in my office."

She did as he beckoned, taking the free seat while he handed her a coffee. "Put a little milk and sugar in there for you," he said cordially, then took his seat behind the desk.

"Thank you," she said. She took a sip, tried not to react to the fact that the coffee was more than a little sweet.

"The reason I asked you here today," he said, "is I wanted to offer you a job."

"Pardon?" she asked, grateful that she had already swallowed her coffee. "Did you say a _job_?"

"A very specific job," he amended. "We would really like to have Mr Aghani and Miss Heaney on our program, and we would like for you to do the interview."

"On television?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.

"That _is_ where we present our programme," he said drolly.

Her thoughts were in a whirl. "I… haven't been on television before," she said. "And I'm not sure they would agree to do it."

"I think they would if it were you they were speaking to."

She pondered it. Perhaps the stories in the paper were leading to something bigger, after all: a career on television. "That's something, I think, that I'd want to ask their lawyer about."

"They can talk if they want," said Finch. "There are no other open court cases, right?"

"I think I'd ask, all the same." She sipped the coffee again, collecting her thoughts. Her goal had been to help them; could an interview now help at all? She would have loved to advance her career out of publicity and onto television, but this seemed a bit too exploitative. "Actually, I think I'm going to have to pass," she said.

Finch's saccharine smile fell. "You're… what?"

"I can see no reason to do a television interview," she said.

"It's a huge story," he said. "Everyone wants to know more."

"No one is entitled to know more," she said.

"If Mr Aghani and Miss Heaney wanted to do it?" he asked.

"If Mr Aghani and _Ms_ Heaney agreed," she said, correcting his persistent misapprehension, "then I _might_ do it. But they're probably not going to agree, and you're going to have to ask them yourself."

He grinned. "Spectacular," he said, looking very smug. "I'll get right on it."

She smiled, rising to her feet. "Good luck with that." She set down the mostly-full coffee. "Nice to meet you."

She felt a little bit of regret at turning the offer down, particularly as she entered her own building to work for the day in a job that was feeling more and more like a dead end… but it passed quickly. Her personal benefit didn't rank above their right to a private life.

When her mobile rang later that afternoon, she shouldn't have been surprised, but she was, simply due to the accusation she heard, and the fact that it was Mark Darcy making it.

"Are you out of your mind," he said harshly, rather than asked, by way of introduction.

"Why now?" she retorted.

"I've just spoken to Eleanor," he said. "Why on earth would you sic _Sit Up Britain_ on them for a television interview?"

"I did no such thing," she said. "I had a meeting this morning with a man called Richard Finch, but had no idea why he wanted to meet until I got there. I turned him down, though I did say if they somehow agreed to do such an interview, I would consider doing it." She looked over her shoulder to see Perpetua obviously listening and trying not to. "I take it they did not agree?"

"They most definitely did not."

She sighed. "I probably should have warned you," she conceded. "But it was _not_ my idea."

She heard him sigh. She could picture him running a hand down over his face. "So why, exactly, _did_ you agree to a meeting with a television studio executive on the heels of your article about the hearing? Did you think perhaps he just wanted to have a friendly chat?"

"You can think what you want," she said, instantly feeling irrationally angry. "I'm telling you the truth."

With that, she disconnected the call, though pressing 'End' on her mobile's screen was not nearly as satisfying as slamming down a telephone receiver.

After a moment's thought (and a few calming breaths), she dialled the number she had for Eleanor and Kafir. Eleanor answered after a few rings.

"Hi, Bridget," said Eleanor.

"I'm so sorry," she blurted out. "I promise you that it wasn't my idea, doing a television interview. I just told that sod that I'd only do it if you agreed, and I knew you'd say no."

"Oh, I'd figured as much, honestly," she said. "If it had been your idea you'd've called me directly."

"Yes! _Thank you!_ " she said. " _Mark_ _Darcy_ thinks it was my idea."

Eleanor chuckled. "He can be very stubborn," she said. "He's a good man, though." After a pause, during which Bridget tried to think of how to respond, Eleanor continued, "We're having a little party on Friday night to celebrate the victory. We'd really love it if you came—after all, the positive press attention was thanks to you."

"Oh, I don't think I should," she said. "This isn't about me."

"Obviously," she said with a little laugh. "But we'd like you to come, all the same. I insist. Kafir insists, too."

"I suppose if you both insist," she said with a smile. "Thank you."

"I'll text you the address," Eleanor said. "Friday, eight in the evening. Looking forward to seeing you."

 **Friday, 5 Feb**

"Mr Darcy, I presume."

Mark had answered the call en route to Eleanor and Kafir's flat for a small party to celebrate the decision, despite not recognising the number. "Yes," Mark said, thinking, _Who else would it be answering my mobile?_ "And who would this be?"

"My name is Richard Finch," he said, "and I'm calling—"

Mark recognised the name at once. "I know who you are. What can I do for you?"

"Fine work in court this week," said Finch with a faint attempt at flattery. "I already spoke to Miss Heaney, but I was hoping you could possibly persuade your former clients to reconsider and participate in an interview with us."

"I could," he said, "if I thought it was something that would benefit them. But I don't, so I won't."

"But sir—"

"For all intents and purposes, for this situation, they are still my clients," he said. "So, again, I must decline."

He heard Finch exhale with exasperation, and he muttered, "I'm not getting anywhere with him, either."

He didn't think it was meant for his ears, but he heard it all the same. "'Either'?"

"Miss Jones," he said. "I couldn't persuade her to do it or talk them into doing it, either."

"Ah," he said, realising in an instant what he meant: Bridget had not misrepresented her motives with Finch. He felt regretful, and very sorry. "Good day," he said distractedly, then ended the call; his mind was already considering how he might apologise to her.

Her line rang only twice before he was directed to her voice mail; with a sigh, he disconnected. Maybe he would just try again after the party.

Before long he pulled alongside the kerb halfway down the block from their building. As he walked up to the building, he realised that coming from the other direction was Bridget herself.

"Hello," he said, which caused her to stop in place and look up.

"Oh. Hi," she said; not unexpectedly, her tone was bristling. "I probably should have guessed you'd be here."

"Yes," he said, rather stupidly. "Look," he went on, "I'm sorry I assumed the worst. I should have known better than to think you'd do such a thing."

She stared silently for a moment. "Yes, you _should_ have known better," she said, but then her features softened. "But, well, apology accepted. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, not moving, not speaking again for what seemed like many moments, only looking at her, who was looking at him. "Shall we… go inside?"

She nodded, then said, "Yes."

He pulled his gaze away at last, then went to the buzz the entryphone for their flat. After a minute or two he heard Kafir's voice. "Yes?"

"Hi, It's Mark," he said. He glanced to her and added, "And Bridget."

"Please, do come up."

The lock buzzed to allow them inside; Mark opened the door, then stepped back to allow her entrance. As she passed by, he caught a whiff of her perfume, and was immediately reminded of the hug they'd shared earlier that week. It so distracted him that he almost forgot to actually enter the building.

"Second floor," he said as they proceeded up the stairs.

"Eleanor told me," she replied, stopping on the first landing to glance back before proceeding upwards.

Before she could knock, he said, "Hold on a moment."

She brought her brows together. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to say again how sorry I am for the misapprehension on my part," he said. "I also…" He hesitated, not sure what to say, but decided on speaking plainly. "I've missed having you around."

"I didn't realise my reporting was that enthralling," she said with a hint of teasing and sarcasm.

"I don't mean for the reporting," he said. To further clarify, he said, "I've missed _you_."

"Oh?" she asked, then, as the meaning sunk in, she repeated, "Ohh." And then, to his delight, she smiled. "Really?"

"I don't make a habit of saying things I don't mean."

Her smile broadened, then she laughed a little. "Sorry, don't mean to laugh," she said. "Just thinking about what my mum might say, that's all. About you… and me."

He didn't reply, just gazed into her eyes; she gazed right back, strangely direct and unflinching. He bent slightly, moving to plant a kiss on her lips, but the sudden motion of the door caused him to jerk back upright.

"I was wondering what was taking so long," said Eleanor, whose expression told him she was fully aware of why they were both standing there in silence, blushing pink with embarrassment. "Come on in."

Bridget shot him a look, smirking a little, before ducking into the flat.

They had not been the first to arrive; a few friends of Kafir's friends from the Kurdish community and a few of their friends from the neighbourhood had also come, amongst whom there was overlap. Eleanor's sister Anne was also here, whom Mark learned within moments of meeting her that she had been living in Australia; Mark was ashamed that, after all of this time, he hadn't even known Eleanor had a sister. Anne had been intending to visit in the autumn to coincide with the planned hearing, and couldn't get back quickly enough to make it for the one that previous Monday.

"It's all right, though," Anne said with a smile that reinforced the familial relation to Eleanor. She raised her glass of wine in a gesture of toast. "I'm perfectly happy with having to settle for arriving in time for a victory party."

Mark wasn't naturally good at mingling, so he tended towards the edges as he sipped his drink and slowly ate from his bowl of Kurdish stew that Kafir's friends had prepared, composed primarily of lamb and vegetables in a savoury tomato base over rice. He saw Bridget chatting with Anne and one of the women from the before he was drawn into a conversation with Eleanor and one of the neighbours.

When next he glanced up, he noticed that Bridget was no longer sitting where he'd seen her last. He decided to go to the kitchen to top up his glass of red; _if she's gone to the kitchen, too_ , he thought, _more's the better_.

She had; she was by a window that she'd cracked open, a mostly spent cigarette in hand. The door swinging shut after he entered the kitchen startled her a little; she hastily stubbed it out, then closed the window. "Eleanor said it was all right to smoke," she said.

"Just here for more of the wine," he said, rather stupidly, pointing to the bottle on the counter.

"Ah," she said. "I'd mostly given up smoking, but…" She trailed off. "So, what did you think of dinner?"

"Very good," he said. "You?"

She nodded, unnecessarily stubbing out the butt end of the cigarette again, and with more focus and force than necessary. He approached her. "It reminded me a little of a—" She stopped short when she realised he was right beside her. "Curry."

"A little," he said. He'd had enough of small talk, though; he hoped he'd interpreted her reaction at the door correctly as he lifted his hand, gently tucking a loose lock of hair away from her cheek, behind her ear. He then dropped his head to place a tender kiss on her lips, then stood upright again. "For earlier. Unfinished business."

"Ah," she said, smiling shyly, colour high on the apples of her cheeks. Her gaze lingered on his for a few moments more before it dropped down. "Perhaps we should… re-join the party." She looked up again; he was pretty sure she regretted having to do so as much as he did.

He stepped back, allowing her to pass him by and leave the kitchen. He picked up the glass he didn't remember setting down in order to pour himself the wine he'd come to get in the first place.

"Hey."

He looked up; it was Eleanor. "Hello," he said.

"Having a nice time?"

"I am," he said. "Thanks for asking me."

"I'm glad," she said. "But I want you to go."

"Pardon?" he asked, surprised, though not alarmed; at least she was smiling impishly.

"Speaking frankly, Mr Darcy," she said, "but I can't help noticing that you can't keep your eyes off of Ms Jones." He opened his mouth to protest, futile as it was, but Eleanor continued: "I misspoke. _We_ can't help noticing. Allow me to suggest that you ask her if she wants a ride home. Sooner, rather than later."

He couldn't help a little smile; he certainly could not deny the charges laid at his feet. "I'll take that under advisement, Ms Heaney," he said.

"Good," she said. She took his wine glass and placed it in the sink. "I'll try to act at least a little surprised when you say your goodbyes."

With that she retreated. After a moment, Mark did, too.

…

Bridget had been thankful for the privacy of the kitchen and its door, but now as she watched the door through which she had just exited (and that Eleanor had just entered), she felt a building anxiety. It was silly, really, particularly as she wasn't even sure why. The light, chaste, all-too-brief kiss was burning on her lips with the promise of what might come next.

Eleanor then emerged again, and within seconds, so did Mark. She looked quickly away, embarrassed that he might think she was staring, waiting, but then glanced back to see him smiling gently, almost nervously, as he walked directly towards her.

"You, um, you mentioned you needed driving home?" he asked.

She hadn't mentioned any such thing; she suspected this had nothing to do with driving home at all, though. "Oh, yes, please," she replied. "When were you leaving?"

"I could go any time," he said.

"Now?"

His mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. "Sure."

She said goodbyes to Kafir and to Eleanor—"Leaving so soon?" she said, disappointed—and to the new friends she'd made that night, and with that, they were donning their coats and heading down the stairs. She wondered if he had something in mind.

She pointed the way she had seen him approaching, as if making sure his vehicle was indeed in that direction. He nodded, and together they walked down the block. It wasn't particularly late, but it was dark and the street was pretty quiet. She slowed when he did to pause beside a very expensive-looking silver car.

"This is it, then," she said, rather than asked. That he didn't have a flashy red sports car did not actually surprise her. This one was classy, stylish, understated, sleek.

"Yes."

She stood next to the door with him beside her. He reached to… well, she thought he was going to reach to open the door for her—what else would he be reaching for?—but instead he stepped closer to her, bringing a hand up to cup her face.

And then he kissed her again, fulfilling the promise from earlier. More than fulfilling it, since this was more than just a chaste kiss; the teasing of her lips by his, she accepted the invitation to deepen it. She felt his hands running over her hair, felt him step forward, pressing her against the door of the car. A small sigh escaped her throat.

The attraction she'd felt towards him had built gradually, she'd realised, like a slow-burning, smouldering ember. The embrace after the extradition hearing had made her aware of its presence, but the kisses today—tonight—had fanned that flame into brilliant life. She broke away, though, to catch her breath; evidently coming to his senses, he stood up straighter, too.

"Got a bit carried away, there," he said; his ordinarily mellifluous voice sounded a little rough, a little gravelly. "Sorry."

She met his gaze again. "Oh, I don't think you need to apologise," she said. Her own voice sounded as shaky as the fingers she raised to brush away a little of her berry-coloured lip balm from the corner of his mouth. "Not at all."

The intensity of those dark eyes rivalled that of his voice. "A nightcap, then?"

 _If that's what he wanted to call it_ , she thought. Her answer was a slow smile, then a nod. "I'd like that," she said, then slipped her hand against his own to hold it, squeezing gently.

He reached and this time really did open the door for her, then closed it once she was inside. Soon he was at her side, engaging the engine, which was the quietest she'd ever heard. The cabin filled with classical music, soothing cello. He put the car into gear, and smoothly they pulled away into traffic.

He hadn't asked where she wanted to go, so she assumed he was going to his own place. She found it thrilling, doubly so as it became clear they were moving towards the very toniest part of London; not that she was shallow enough that this was a priority for her, but it was a pleasant surprise.

They didn't say anything for the short drive. She was contemplating everything that had happened, and imagined that he was, too. The car came to a stop, the engine disengaged, and he was up and out of the vehicle, opening her door, before she realised he had done so. He held out his hand to help her stand up, then led her to the front door, allowing her in first.

When he stepped in, the lamp in the entryway came up as if by magic; she gasped, and he chuckled. "I got tired of stumbling forward until I found the switch," he explained, doffing his coat, "so I got some of those smart light bulbs that turn on when I come within range of them."

"Wow," she said.

"Well," he explained; soundlessly he offered to take her coat. "Not _me_ , but my mobile." After pulling the sleeves together in a frankly alarming way, he hung it on the coat rack next to his, then turned to her. "The miracle of technology," he said. Then he gestured towards the sitting room, which she entered. He went towards a small bar area, poured from a decanter. "What would you like?"

"What are you having?"

"Scotch."

"Jet fuel." She screwed up her face; he chuckled. "What do you have?"

"Besides the jet fuel, I have brandy, Bailey's—"

"Stop, right there," she said, holding up her hand. "Sold."

"All right." He glanced to her. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

She took a seat on the sofa, hoping he'd join her. He did, handing her a tumbler. He held up his own, as if to toast. "To justice prevailing," he said, "and to new beginnings."

She didn't know if he meant the new chapter that Eleanor and Kafir were about to begin, or their own nascent relationship, but it hardly mattered. "Hear, hear." They touched the rims together, then raised their glasses to drink. Might have been uncouth to knock back the drink in one long swallow, but she saw him do the same; she lowered her glass as he did. Without a word he reached forward to take the tumbler from her grasp, then set them down together on a low glass table.

He then turned back to look at her with a piercing gaze. Her stomach fluttered; her heart raced a little faster. And then he leaned forward and placed his lips to hers, the sharpness of the scotch on his lips quickening her pulse further. Jet fuel, indeed.

The kiss quickly deepened; she heard him exhale a breath as his arms came up around her. One hand pressed between her shoulders, while the other rested upon her waist. He broke away to begin placing delicate kisses upon her neck and throat; as he did so, he grasped her hip, fingertips pressing insistently, pulling her closer before releasing her. She gasped to feel his hand against her bottom, cupping, then grasping.

He raised his head enough to murmur into her ear. "Too much?"

"Oh, God, _no_ ," she burbled, opening her eyes to meet his gaze. "Not too much." She lifted a hand, tracing fingers along his brow, his cheek, before leaning forward again to resume the kiss.

His hand came down from her backside down her thigh, his fingertips grazing below the hem of her skirt; with this she surged forward, bringing her arms up and around his neck, pressing her chest against his—registering consciously for the first time that he had not actually removed his suit jacket, very sexy—and assaulting him with her kiss.

This was apparently not too much for him, as he pressed fingers into her thigh. She twisted her hips, lifted her knee to drape her leg across his lap. When she felt his fingers traversing the hem of the skirt, heard the intake of breath as his fingers discovered the top edge of the tights she wore, touched on her tender inner thigh—

She broke away with a little moan. How long had she been attracted to him this much? How could she have not realised it sooner?

Afterward, with a long exhale he leaned back into the sofa; she could see the pulse thumping in his throat, watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed to moisten his dried throat. She loosened then removed his tie, tossing it aside; she undid the top button of his shirt, then leaned forward to nestle her cheek against his, struggling to regain her own breath after the exhilaration of their romp. She felt his fingers combing through her hair then cradle the back of her head.

At long last, he spoke, clearing his throat first. "I shall never again be able to taste Bailey's without thinking of… this," he said, clearly amused.

She ran a hand over his hair and chuckled a little. She turned her head, placing a kiss by his ear, just on the sideburn there. He tightened an arm around her waist.

"I'm of a mind," he went on softly, "to invite you upstairs."

"I'm of a mind to accept," she murmured.

…

After careful disengagement—he attentively smoothed down the edge of her skirt when she got to her feet—Mark slipped his arm around her waist and walked with her out into the foyer. "I didn't really get a good look before," she said, glancing around and upwards; his hand, his arm, held her steady. "I was, um, distracted."

He smiled a little; he could totally understand. He drew her closer, burying his nose in her hair; with the heels she was wearing, she was much taller than usual. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Seems… big."

At this he laughed lightly.

"But we can save the grand tour for another time," she said, turning to face him. "Shall we?"

He was glad that the balance of the package of condoms resided in his en suite. He held out his elbow in an exaggeratedly formal manner. "Let's," he said.

She brushed his elbow aside with a giggle. "We don't need to proceed up the stairs like we're about to be announced," she said. "And oh, I should take off these shoes before I twist my ankle and break my neck on your stairs."

He thought about their romp, how much the presence of her shoes had—to his surprise—turned him on. "Oh, I don't think you should," he said, looking down at her legs and shoe-clad feet with appreciation. "I could carry you up."

"I doubt it."

"Is that a challenge?" he asked. Before she could answer, quick as lightning he bent, hooking his arms beneath her knees, and swooping her up, one arm at her back.

Clearly surprised, she smiled and giggled again, reaching her hand up to rake her nails over his hair. "I'm going to start thinking maybe you've done this before." Her smile faded; it was likely she'd just remembered his failed marriage.

"Not that it mattered to me half as much," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. Her expression brightened a little, and then she smiled again.

Then he began to scale the stairs.

"Oh, my God, you're really going to do it," she said, starting to laugh again.

"I don't say things I don't mean," he said.

With a few more soft giggles, her expression went a bit more serene. "I guess you don't," she said at last, running the backs of her fingers along his cheek.

Hurriedly he finished going up the last few stairs, then strode purposefully forward to his bedroom. Carefully he set her on the bed—"Oh my God, how insanely high is this bed?" she marvelled quietly—then stood to his full height, looking down upon her. Her blue eyes looked luminous and wide as she looked up to him, her moist, pink lips slightly parted.

What he wanted to do next: to pounce upon her and kiss her again, divest her of her outfit, and make slow and tender love to her, in contrast to the animalistic frenzy on the sofa.

What he _actually_ did next: he stood there, gazing down upon her, not speaking, not knowing quite what to say. He hoped desperately that the round on the sofa hadn't left a poor first impression on this new intimacy with her, hadn't left her thinking he was some kind of sex-crazed maniac—

He was surprised out of his thoughts by the feel of her grasping the waistband of his trousers and pulling him closer to her. "I thought that might get your attention," she said.

He felt his face flush, but he slipped out of the suit jacket, began unbuttoning his shirt; not one to remain idle, apparently, she decided to begin working open his belt buckle. In a flash it was open, as was the button at his waist. She tugged down the zip, then pulled on the trousers at his hips to send them pooling around his ankles. He felt a bit strange (and foolish) standing there in an unbuttoned shirt and a vest beneath that, boxers, and discarded trousers.

But she only looked up at him with appreciation.

Hastily he unfastened the cufflinks and tossed them to the nightstand—sparing a brief thought for the tie he had been wearing, but was now gone—then removed his shirt. As it dropped down he felt her hands on his hips, fingers playing along the waistband of his boxers.

She gasped, and he realised it was his sudden move to drop and sit by her side that had caused it; he encircled her with one arm then brought his free hand up to cradle her face before drawing her into a kiss. She responded positively, turning towards him, bringing her hand to his chest and raking her fingernails down, until she stopped and pulled away suddenly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed.

"I just…" She paused, looking down, as if considering her words. "I'd kind of like to…" With a nail she lifted the edge of the vest up at his shoulder. "… get rid of all of this." Her eyes met his again, and they were sparkling. "I'm also hoping you had more… well. You know."

"I do," he said, then raised up his own fingers to trace the V-shaped collar of her top. "And I agree." The same fingers dropped down to reach for the lower edge of the top, then, with both hands, tugged the shirt up and over her head.

"Increasingly glad I dressed so nicely tonight," she managed as he next reached on the front clasp of the bra; at least, he tried, before she shifted up to shimmy the skirt down and off. This left her in her shoes, stockings, pants, and bra; all of them pretty, but none of them matching, and he hardly cared. The curves, the contrast of her pale skin against the black lace of the pants, the dark magenta of the satin bra, and those thigh-high tights… Absolutely gorgeous.

"Stop it," she said nervously, interrupting his thoughts.

"Pardon?"

"Stop staring at me," she said. Her cheeks were actually flushing bright pink.

"I'm not staring," he said. "I'm appreciating." He raised his hand again, tracing a finger down the satin bra strap, along the top edge of the cup; he'd had no idea such a fun, colourful undergarment lurked under her sapphire-toned top. Such a pleasant surprise… much like she'd turned out to be.

 _So much for taking it slow and easy_.

…

She exhaled a long, satisfied breath, opened extremely heavy lids to look at him where he had rested on the pillow. "I should have known," she said, still short of breath.

Her comment seemed very mysterious to him. He couldn't resist taking the bait. "Known what?"

"When I saw you in court," she said. "I should've known that that passion might apply to other, um, areas of life. That was bloody _hot_."

The truth was he had felt more unbridled with her just now than with any other woman he'd ever slept with, maybe because she had been forthright in her own desires. Her compliment still made him flush with embarrassment, though. Did she think he made a habit of falling into bed with women like this?

"That's cute," she said, stroking the line of his brow.

"What is?"

"It's kind of dim in here," she said, "but even still, I can see you're blushing."

So he tried to explain, but couldn't find the words. "I… am not very eloquent in situations like this."

"You really don't have to be," she said, "particularly lying here as you are." Her gaze flicked down.

Lying between her thighs; he hadn't even, well, drawn out of her yet. Point taken. "I'm not, really," he said. "Passionate like this, I mean. In bed."

"Not even with—" she began, then stopped. "Oh. Sorry. Not the best pillow talk."

"It's all right," she said. "I've slept with my wife, obviously, and a handful of other women. But I haven't quite been this… inspired before."

Her brows lifted, and a small smirk found her face. "Ooh," she said. "I think I'm very flattered."

"You should be," he said, his voice low. His attraction, his desire for her was very strong again already. Slowly he retreated from her, turning over, sitting up to dispose of the condom. Then he turned his gaze back to her.

She laid back on the bed, her gaze steady in return, her grin impish. She raised a brow, then patted the bed beside her. "Flatter me more?"

 **Saturday, 6 Feb**

A flash of brightness was what woke Mark the next morning; he blinked open his eyes to see her standing at the window, clad in his dressing gown, pulling the drape aside for a peek to the street. As he shifted and sat up, she looked to him, dropping the drape.

"Sorry."

"It's all right," he said groggily. "What are you doing?"

"Wanted to see the view from here," she said.

"What do you think?"

She smiled. "It'll do."

She came back to sit on the bed.

"Do you want some breakfast? I'll—"

"I just wanted to say that I don't usually do this," she blurted out, talking over him; obviously this was something over which she'd been mulling. "Sleep with someone on a first date, I mean."

"Technically," he said, "it wasn't even a date."

She brought her hands up to her face. "Oh, God. I slept with you _before_ the first date," she said. "I'm the _worst_."

"On the contrary," he said, leaning to put his arm around her shoulders, her temple against his. "You're the best."

"That was corny," she said, lowering her hands, "but by God, I'll take it."

He placed a kiss on her cheek; she turned to give him a proper kiss, then drew back to turn into his embrace.

"So what about that date, then?" he murmured into her ear. "Does breakfast count?"

He could hear her light laughter close to him. "I suppose it could, technically," she said. "But a proper date wouldn't go awry."

"Dinner tonight," he said, then clarified: "Out."

"All right," she said. She drew back to meet his gaze. "Breakfast, then?"

"What would you like?" he asked. "I could whip up a batch of muffins; I've got some blueberries in the freezer…"

"I had no idea baking was a secret passion of yours," she said with a smile. "That sounds lovely, but I'll be happy with coffee and maybe something that doesn't take quite so long, and that way we can use the extra time, maybe, in _better_ ways."

He thought for a moment. "Instant oatmeal with marmalade?"

"Hmm. Better."

He persuaded her to stay and keep the bed warm while he went down for breakfast, after persuading her to part with the dressing gown, an action that made him eager to return upstairs to do more than just ply her with breakfast.

As he waited for the kettle to come to a boil, the telephone began to ring—the landline that some of his more techno-savvy friends had teased his for still having. He wondered then if someone might be trying to reach him; he usually answered his mobile promptly, and had no idea where he had left it, or rather his suit jacket, last.

"Mark Darcy," he said.

"Mark, hello." It was Eleanor. "Just curious about how everything went last night. Grew concerned when I couldn't reach you by mobile."

He suspected more curiosity than concern, but he smiled. "Very well," he said. "I was… just making breakfast."

"Oh?" asked Eleanor, and as she did, the penny dropped. "Oh! I'm so pleased. Don't let me keep you."

"Very kind," he said. "And thank you."

"Send my best regards," she said. "You know, you sound… happy."

"So far, so good," he said. "Best get back to it."

"Yes, best you do," she said. "Bye."

With a tray laden with coffees and bowls of oatmeal with a healthy dollop of marmalade on top, Mark made his way back upstairs to the bedroom. He found the bed empty but the en suite door was closed. "Bridget?"

"Be right out," he heard her call back. Within a few seconds the door opened and she came out, hair hanging around her face in thin damp fronds, her skin pink and glowing, a towel tucked at her chest. "Took a quick shower," she said. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," he said, sitting on the bed, putting the tray beside him.

"That smells fantastic," she said, sitting beside it. "That's how I _know_ I'm hungry. Oh. That sounded terrible."

He laughed. "I know what you mean."

She took a bowl. "Oh, you remembered how I like my coffee."

He looked to her with a smile, and she smiled back.

When they finished their breakfast, he stacked the bowls then moved the tray off of the bed and out of the way. Their gazes met again. "You know," she said, rubbing her arm as if to warm it, "I'm feeling a bit chilled now."

"I think I might just be able to do something about that," he said.

…

She hadn't expected to stay the night, nor had she intended to, but waking up and recalling the night before brought a smile to her face. Seeing the slumbering form in the bed beside her made her smile widen a little bit more.

When she thought back to their first meetings… it was not a thing she'd ever expected. But here she was. A man of integrity, composed under pressure, mentally sharp as a tack, quick on his feet, all bundled into someone who opened up to very few, and let in even fewer still.

He turned over; she took the opportunity to slip out of bed and pad toward the loo. Only then did she realise how enormous the bedroom was. Did it take up an entire level of the house? She was almost convinced of this.

On her way out of the loo she stole the dressing gown hanging off of the back of the door on a hook. It was too big, but it was cosy and it felt a little like being in his embrace. She wandered back into the bedroom to see that he hadn't moved yet. He was rather nice to look at; now that she had seen him smile, she saw the smile hovering just under the surface all of the time. He shifted a little, his jaw tensing then releasing.

She thought of Shazzer's vulgar comment all those weeks ago, and smiled to herself. Now she relished the thought of telling her friend exactly how good it had been. She felt weird, though, staring at him as long as she had, thinking the thoughts that she'd been thinking, so she turned to the window to have a look outside. _Bit far up_ , she thought. Nice view though. The neighbourhood was on full display, lush green trees amongst really posh wedding-cake-style houses with their perfectly manicured little postage-stamp gardens.

And then she heard him moving behind her. She turned to see a sunbeam playing along his exposed skin.

Before she dropped the pane, she could only think, _A nice view, indeed_.


	4. Epilogue

**A Day in the Life**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 33,624  
Rating: M / R (For Chapter 3)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 **Saturday, 14 May**

" _You_. An actual holiday. I can hardly believe it." Eleanor Heaney entwined her fingers, then rested her chin on them, as she sat at the bistro table across from Mark. "Where are you going?" Then she lowered her voice, smirking a little. "And more importantly… are you going alone?"

He smiled a little. "I think you know, regarding that second question."

She sat upright in her chair, clapping her hands together. "Where _are_ you going, then?"

"South of France."

"Ooh," she said. "Nice that you're taking a break from it all. Away from phone calls and emails…"

"Well, I'm not sure there's _ever_ an escape from those," Mark quipped.

"All right, then. Away from other people," said Eleanor, winking.

"And how are you doing?" Mark said abruptly. "How's Kafir?"

"He'll be here in five minutes, so you can ask him yourself," Eleanor retorted; Mark couldn't help note, and not for the first time, how much lighter in spirit she was since knowing for certain her husband was here to stay. "So how's Bridget?"

Mark knew he could have said the same—as Bridget would likely arrive before long—but in truth, he was pleased to talk to someone about her who wasn't in the immediate circle of family and family friends. "She's well," he said. "She's still working as a freelancer."

"And a new, full-time job?"

"She's still thinking about what happens next," he said. "It's all still up in the air."

"I'm surprised to hear you so laid back about uncertainty," she said.

He knew what she meant. He was very much about plans and order. "I'm loosening up a little," he said.

"And how does she feel about this holiday trip?"

"I don't know," he said. "I haven't asked her yet."

"What? Why not?"

It wasn't rational, and he knew it. "It's only been a few months," he said. "I… don't want her to think it's all going too fast."

She smiled. "I really don't think you have a thing to worry about."

…

Bridget was late again, and she couldn't even blame not being able to slip out of work. Well, not work in an open office, anyway. She had gotten so caught up in research on a piece on which she was working that she'd lost track of time, and glanced up to realise she was due at the bistro in thirty minutes.

She hadn't done so bad, all things considered: she looked fairly to moderately presentable for the time constraint. The weather had turned pleasantly spring-like, so she had worn a new floral sundress she'd been saving, with a light cardigan to keep warm in the shade.

She arrived to find that she had been the last to arrive. She wasn't surprised; she usually was the last person to arrive to a lunch date. Mark's eyes scanned the room, then flicked back to her as recognition set in.

And then he smiled.

He got to his feet as she came near, grasping her elbow and kissing her lightly on the lips. "Hello, lovely," he said quietly, his gaze locked to hers. The butterflies in her stomach started doing somersaults.

"Hi," she said to him in that same low tone, then looked to Eleanor and Kafir. "And hello to you! You're looking so well."

And they both did. Eleanor's face looked a bit fuller now that she wasn't constantly worrying about their future. Kafir too looked less haggard, more well-rested, and he greeted her with a smile. "So how are you?"

She was hoping that Kafir had gotten work with Amnesty or some such, or Eleanor was working with Red Cross UK, but to her surprise, the married couple shared a look then turned back with broad smiles. "We're fine," said Eleanor. "All three of us."

It took a moment for the meaning to filter through, but when it did, she made a sound that was very like a squeal. "Oh my God, that's _marvellous_!" she said. "I'm so happy for you both! What a wonderful conclusion to this long nightmare."

"It has been a nightmare," said Kafir. "But at least there were silver linings. Meeting the two of you. And now the little one."

"How far along?"

"Just a tick over three months," she said, beaming proudly. Bridget counted back… and conception must have happened just around the court date, when their stress levels had plummeted. She was inordinately pleased.

"We sat here chatting for twenty minutes before these two arrived, and you never said a word," Mark said in a serious tone, but then smiled. "Your poker face is on point. You'll make a great mum. You'll both make great parents."

"Thank you," Eleanor said. "We've been talking, and since I'm working now with British Red Cross—" _Ha!_ Bridget thought. "—that it might make sense to keep on doing that while Kafir keeps the baby at home."

"That sounds like a wonderful plan," Bridget said.

The server came to take the meal orders just then, and talk moved to other things. The lunch was perfectly enjoyable all around; she was glad to have made a friend in Eleanor and Kafir, though to be honest Eleanor seemed so much more of a 'real adult' than she could ever hope to be. Even more than Magda, and that was saying something.

Before long they were saying their goodbyes, peppered with declarations like "So good to see you!" and "Let's do this again soon." But it was something Eleanor said to Mark, something that Bridget suspected she wasn't supposed to have overheard, that confused her completely.

"Keep taking care of yourself and of her, and have a nice time, all right?"

While Bridget walked away with Mark—no firm plans had been set for after the group lunch, but she figured he would just come to her flat, so that they could spend time together—she asked him, her hand in his, "What did Eleanor mean by that?"

"By what?"

"'Have a nice time'," she said.

"Ah," he said, looking down as they walked. When they got to his car a few short steps later, he turned to look at her. He seemed so nervous, unaccountably so. "I… I'm taking a holiday. A week in Marseille."

"Oh," she said. "That's… lovely."

"I was hoping you'd join me."

She blinked, thinking she'd misunderstood. "A holiday with you?"

"Yes."

"It sounds lovely," she said, "but I don't know if I can afford a holiday, or the time away from working. I'm doing all right with freelance, but without the full-time work…"

He chuckled, then took her hands in his. "Perhaps I wasn't clear," he said. "I want you to be my guest. See, I want to take a holiday, but I don't want to go alone. And honestly, I don't really want to be away from you for a week."

It astounded her, really. How Mark had gone from the cold, brusque man she'd met on assignment, to this, with his emotional, almost vulnerable justification for wanting to take her with him. It was a transformation, really, and she was thankful to have elicited it, because she could easily see falling in love with him.

Perhaps she already was.

She felt her eyes brimming with happy tears, and she smiled, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him quickly on the lips. "When you put it that way," she said, "I guess I'd better go find my passport, eh?"

She loved her life. She fucking, fucking, _fucking_ loved her life.

The end.


End file.
